


A Marvelous Work and a Wonder

by wowbright



Series: A Marvelous Work and a Wonder [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biblical References, Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, Doctrine and Covenants, Gen, I almost put The District (BYU TV) as one of the fandoms, I mean I watched all the episodes but none of the characters here are based on the characters there, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Microaggressions galore, Missionairies, Mormonism, Proselytizing, Religion, Scripture References, The Book of Mormon - Freeform, and absolutely no kissing, kissing will eventually happen in this verse but not in this part of it, no confessions of love, no like seriously they do not fall in love and get married in this fic, no masturbation or sexual fantasies, though naturally some situations have similarities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 06:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8833819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wowbright/pseuds/wowbright
Summary: As a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormons), Kurt Hummel can easily ignore the fact that he’s gay. The other missionaries have boorish habits that make them totally unappealing to Kurt’s romantic sensibilities. But three months before the end of Kurt’s post-high-school missionary service, the higher-ups assign Kurt to live and work with a new companion: the kind, charming, and devastatingly handsome Blaine Anderson. This is the story of their first day working together.Sequel to Small Things, but can be read on its own.





	1. God's Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JudeAraya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JudeAraya/gifts).



> I love getting comments! Also, I think when I converted this from Scrivener to Google Docs to Microsoft Word, I might have lost a few random paragraphs throughout the story, because I found at least one missing when I was posting. (I fixed that one.) But if you think there's a missing word or something, feel free to speak up! <3
> 
> I have soooo many thanks! Thanks to
> 
> \- my phenomenal artist, mypopculturesummer;  
> \- my betas, jazzypizzazz, redheadgleek, nadiacreek, gingerbeebee, snarkyhag, corinna/chiasmuslovesme  
> \- judearaya and stultiloquentia for letting my barf thoughts at them  
> \- likearumchocolatesouffle/likeasouffle for many things  
> \- Help with seasons and plants and regional things: 9thbutterfly and lalaneii  
> \- glitterdark for helping Rory Flanagan not sound so American, and my apologies for the stupid leprechaun joke I carried over from canon  
> \- The-Cimmerians, who four years ago made the post that started my obsession with Mormon!Klaine  
> \- Everyone who answered http://wowbright.tumblr.com/post/151903111650/who-wants-to-talk-about-the-things-that-attract, including Anonymous, whisperyvoices, flowerfan2, tacogrande, gleeksos, freeloveandweedjk, snarkyhag, fabfemmeboy, allygirl1234, jaded-idealism  
> _ Also thank you fabfemmeboy for helping me with my french, which ended up not being used in this installment  
> \- All the brave, queer souls who’ve told their stories in the bloggernacle  
> \- My real-life Mormon peeps who have shared pieces of their faith and their lives with me  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a good time to mention that the beliefs held by any of the Mormon characters in this story aren’t always consistent with orthodox doctrine of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. (Elder Flanagan, I'm giving you the stinkeye right along with Kurt.) As in any spiritual path, individual practitioners bring their own experiences and ways of thinking with them, and that influences what they believe and how they put their beliefs into practice. I did, however, try to stick close to orthodoxy as understood by Kurt and Blaine when they are talking to potential converts, because that’s what LDS missionaries strive to do.

 

Kurt Hummel was late. This should have been an impossibility. Left to his own devices, he was always on time, as accurate as a Swiss watch.

But he hadn’t been left to his own devices. He had a leaden weight around his ankle by the name of Elder Flanagan, an Irish kid with his head always in the clouds. Kurt hated to second-guess the prophet, but it was difficult _not_ to question the wisdom of allowing eighteen-year-olds to serve missions when Kurt was yoked down by the flightiest eighteen-year-old on the continent. If only President Monson had waited to lower the missionary age until after Kurt was done with his mission, he wouldn’t have had to deal with flighty little leprechauns like Elder Flanagan. But the prophet-president of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints hadn’t waited, and here Elder Flanagan was, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling as he sang “It’s Not Easy Being Green” to himself.

It was probably a test. A chance for Kurt to cultivate his patience. Lord knew, Kurt could use some.

“Elder Flanagan, we need to go soon.” Kurt said, looking down at his watch. “The train arrives at the Hauptbahnhof at eleven thirty-seven.” He said is just like that, not “eleven thirty” or “eleven forty-five” the way he might have back home, because this wasn’t Amtrak or Greyhound or the Lima Muni. It was a German train, and a German trains were on time—well, except when all the conductors were on strike, but that hadn’t happened in a while. The only other things that could delay a German train were acts of God or terrorist attacks, and even then they tended to persist. “We don’t want to leave Elders Anderson and Thompson waiting around for us wondering if we’re going to show.”

Elder Flanagan sat up. “ It’ll only take me two secs to pack.”

“Then show me.”

“Alright then,” Elder Flanagan said in his light, easygoing way. He almost sounded grateful, as if the only thing stopping him from getting himself going was that it simply hadn’t occurred to him that he should. He hopped out of bed and continued singing to himself as he stripped off the sheets and shoved them into a duffle bag, then pulled his underwear drawer out of the dresser and turned it upside down, dumping its contents unceremoniously into his suitcase. The white undershirts, each embroidered with small religious symbols over the nipples and navel, unfurled into a haphazard pile. Elder Flanagan shoved them flat.

“Don’t treat your garments like that. They’re a symbol of the holy priesthood.”

Elder Flanagan just smiled as he piled his tie collection on top of them. “They get wrinkled every time I put them through the wash. Anyway, you’re the one telling me to hurry.” His tone was more amusement than sass. He often reacted to Kurt this way, bewildered at why he took things so seriously.

 _You wouldn’t need to if you’d packed last night instead of talking on the phone with that girl from the Hochschule,_ Kurt thought, but he bit his tongue. There was no point getting into it now. Elder Flanagan was on his way out, and his flirtations with the local girls would be a problem for another senior companion to deal with.

Elder Flanagan slammed his suitcase shut. “Doch fertig!” Even though he’d only been in the country for eight weeks, he pronounced his “ch” perfectly, a soft scraping sound made toward the back of his throat—had from the very beginning. His Irish background, with its _Taoiseach_ and _lochs_ and _Cú Chulainn_ gave him an advantage over the Americans that way.

“What about your suit?”

Elder Flanagan dashed to the wardrobe and pulled out his suit bag. “All packed.”

“And your towels?”

“I’ll grab them on my way down the hall.”

“And your Erdnussflips? Can you survive the train ride without them?” Elder Flanagan was hooked on the weird but addicting snack that could best be described as peanut-flavored Cheetos.

“Ha ha. Yes. I am bestowing my Erdnussflip collection to you, Herr Hummel, because I’m a generous leprechaun and Erdnussflips are the pure, peanuty gold at the end of your rainbow.” Elder Flanagan gave Kurt a wink as he whisked himself out of the room.

Incorrigible.

Kurt sometimes thought that his missionary work might turn him off of men completely. High school had been such a struggle for him, developing crushes on one boy after another. He’d never had the inclination to act on any of them—his church forbade it, and besides, none of the boys he had crushes on were actually gay.

But here on his mission, Kurt had barely had a single romantic feeling. Living with boys twenty-four hours a day sloughed away the mystique. He’d had eight companions so far during his mission, and each had some quality that made him unattractive to Kurt. With Elder Flanagan, it was his undisciplined approach to missionary work. With Elder Weston, it had been unapologetic arrogance. Even the missionaries who had been good workers and understood humility all had attributes that made it impossible for Kurt to think of them in a romantic sense. It might have been a crass sense of humor or stinky feet or an insistence on pronouncing “ch” as “sh”—whatever it was, in each case Kurt always remembered to thank God for it.

Kurt didn’t want to fall in love, ever—but especially not on his mission.

The only exception had been that one British elder, but even then it was just a soft, quiet spark—not even a flame—that Kurt could easily ignore. So he had, always being careful not to feed it, not to give it oxygen or kindling by which to spread. They spoke only of scriptures and the day-to-day business of being missionaries, and Kurt was careful not to share anything intimate about himself with that one—especially not that he had a weakness for men.

Kurt followed his companion out into the hall, Elder Flanagan ducking into the bathroom for his towels as promised, then stopping in front of the little wall-mounted coat rack by the front door to pull on his suit jacket, then his rain jacket.

Kurt looked at his watch. They still had twenty minutes until they really needed to leave. “You’re really ready to go? You don’t need to … pee or anything?”

“Nah. I’ll be fine. You can if you want to, though.”

“No.” Kurt pulled on his own trench coat and shoved his keys into his pocket. He glanced at Elder Flanagan’s suitcase. “Do you mind walking with it for a few blocks? If we get the bus over at the Omnibusbahnhof instead of the one at the corner, we can go all the way to the train station without having to transfer.” It was about a kilometer to the Omnibusbahnhof, an easy walk for two missionaries who regularly logged several miles on foot each day.

Elder Flanagan pulled up the suitcase handle and pushed it like a vacuum cleaner across the entryway’s wooden floor. “No problem. Nice day for a stroll.”

He whistled as they made their way down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. The sun had begun to warm the stone and asphalt that paved the downtown, giving a comforting metallic scent to the morning air. Spring had only recently begun, and now it was warm enough to go without a hat, but still too cold to forgo a coat. Kurt liked days like these, because it meant he never had to worry about hat head when he got to his destination. Not that his hair could ever get too out of control on his mission; here, he was required to keep it much shorter than he had back home, allowing only an inch or so of evenly tapered growth at the top and sides. No swoopy updos when representing the only true church of God on earth; one had to look like a professional. The fact that professional men in Germany often wore swoopy updos was of no relevance. The dress and grooming standards came down from Salt Lake City, Utah, and only what passed for conservative there was permitted for a soldier in God’s army.

Kurt did what he could to give his hair volume and not break the rules, scrunching a little mousse into the hair at his crown and forehead each morning after his shower. The sister missionaries could wear makeup and color their hair, for goodness’ sake; If God loved all his children equally, shouldn’t the elders put the same amount of effort into being presentable? Besides, Kurt didn’t like to look more American than he had to. God’s church was worldwide, and his followers ought to be citizens of the world before they were citizens of a given country. At least, that’s what Kurt believed, even if the philosophy didn’t sit well with other American missionaries in his area.

He glanced over at Elder Flanagan. His junior’s hair probably had enough voom on top to be skirting regulation, as well. Kurt was strict about a lot of things, but he never had the heart to enforce Utah’s peculiar tastes on the dress sense of European missionaries. Still, as a good senior companion, he ought to have dragged Flanagan to the barber on their last P-Day, their only day off each week and the day traditionally reserved for things like going to the barber. But P-Day was so crowded with things to do—just eight hours to get their laundry done, clean the apartment, buy groceries, and write letters home—that they’d only had time to touch up each other’s back and sides with Kurt’s electric clippers. Neither of them had been in to the barber in weeks, and Elder Flanagan’s coif was now easily an inch and a half of straight-up height at the top, making the junior companion almost as tall as Kurt.

“Elder Thompson’s going to make you get a haircut next P-Day. Don’t hold it against him. I should have had you get one, too.”

Elder Flanagan patted the top of his hair lightly with his free hand, obviously taking care not to scrunch it down. “Do you mean this is too long?”

Kurt nodded.

“Really?”

Kurt nodded again.

“Do you want me looking like I’m in the military?”

“It’s not what I want. It’s what the Brethren want.”

Elder Flanagan seemed to chew on this for a few beats as his suitcase rolled behind him, singing _clackety-clack_ every time it hit a seam in the sidewalk. “Well, if it’s what the Brethren want, I’m not one to argue.” He gave Kurt a thoughtful look. “Sometimes, I get the feeling that what the Brethren want is influenced just a bit by them all having grown up in America—President Uchtdorf excepted, of course.”

President Uchtdorf was German. The rest of the fifteen members of the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles were American, ten of them from Utah the last time Kurt bothered to count. But no matter where they were from, God had called every single one of those presidents and apostles to serve him. If most of them were conservative white men from Utah, then it meant God wanted conservative white men from Utah to lead his church. “God picked those leaders for a reason,” Kurt said. “He knew what their experiences, beliefs, and cultural background was when he selected them. If God thought their Utah backgrounds would have limited them in any way, led them to making wrong decisions or leading the church astray, he wouldn’t have picked them. Maybe Utah has something to teach the rest of the world.”

Kurt made a mental note to go to the barber, as well.

“Maybe,” said Elder Flanagan.

“Just, if any of the missionaries in Munich tell you to ask for a ‘Kaiserschnitt’ when you go to the barber, ignore them. I fell for that when I was a greenie, and the barber would _not_ stop laughing.”

Elder Flanagan looked at Kurt curiously. “Why? An emperor's cut sounds like a pretty dignified style.”

“Because it’s not a hairstyle.”

“No?”

“It’s a Caesarian section.”

Elder Flanagan snickered. “Ha! That’s a good one, though.”

“If you’re not on the butt end of it.”

A couple of teenaged girls, likely on morning break from classes at the prep school near downtown, eyed the missionaries as they walked by. A wispy blonde leaned into the ear of her dark-haired, almost Italian-looking friend, and they both giggled. Elder Flanagan tugged at the knot in his tie before calling out, _“_ Grüss Gott, schöne Mädeln!” _Hello, pretty girls!_ It was a greeting entirely unsuitable for a missionary. A mission was about gaining converts—wives were the award for all that hard work, but only _after_ the mission was over. Every missionary vowed to stay celibate and chaste, to not so much as hug a member of the opposite sex for the two years of their service. _Lock your heart_ was practically the mission’s motto.

“Elder Flanagan!” Kurt warned under his breath.

“Grüss Gott,” the darker girl called back flirtatiously, twisting a lock of her straight hair around one finger but not slowing her pace. Her gaze darted from Elder Flanagan to Kurt, following the line of his suit down to the ground and then up again. She gave him a wink before turning away with another giggle.

Kurt suppressed a shudder as the girls walked past them and Elder Flanagan’s head turned not-so-subtly to follow their movements until they were out of sight. Kurt always felt so strange, a weird mixture of pride and revulsion, when girls looked at him like that—not that they did so often, but it happened more here in Germany than it had at home in the states. Back in high school, he’d gotten picked on a lot for being effeminate, even before he knew he was gay. He was thin, with high cheekbones and skin as pale as bone china, and when he was feeling good about himself—or when he wanted people to believe he felt good about himself—his tendency was to walk with a swagger that had an unfortunate tendency to come across as a swish. Plus, his voice hadn’t truly broken until he was sixteen, and even then it didn’t drop much.

Here in Germany, people didn’t code him as gay, at least not as quickly as they had back in Ohio. Part of it was probably that he had the body of a man now, not an adolescent boy. His shoulders had broadened since his arrival in the country, and he’d gained a couple inches as well. He’d accounted for a possible second growth spurt when he’d sewn his suits for his mission, but still he’d had make several alterations over the last twenty-one months. His facial hair came in heavier now, too, so that he had to shave every other day instead of the once-a-week-just-for-fun ritual it had been prior to his graduation.

But it wasn’t just that he was changing. It was that Europe was different. They could wear tailored suits and colorful socks and brightly patterned ties without it imputing something about their sexuality. They could be beautiful, the way that peacocks were beautiful. No one ever called a peacock less of a male because he was beautiful. And Germans seemed to think that the rule applied to humans, as well.

Kurt pinched Elder Flanagan’s elbow. “Elder, you know better than to flirt with the locals.”

“Ah, come on. No harm done. None of them even kissed me.”

“The first step in committing a sin is allowing the thought of sin to enter your mind,” Kurt said. “Lock your heart.”

“It wasn’t my heart that was impressed by those girls, Elder Hummel.”

Kurt sighed wearily and voiced his previous thoughts. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Now, now, Elder, I’m not _that_ hopeless. I only looked once at those girls. And you know what they say, ‘Look twice, and you’re not a good missionary. But if you don’t even look once, you’re not a man.’”

“That’s _not_ how the saying goes.” Though to be fair, it was close enough. Kurt was just being contrary because he despised the saying in both this new form and its original one: _If you don't look once, you're not a man. If you look twice, you're not a missionary._ It felt like a direct attack on who he was, even though it was rarely meant that way. Most boys didn’t bother to think before they spoke, and most Mormon missionaries were still boys at heart, despite what the honorific “Elder” might imply.

Knowing this didn’t lessen the sting. Especially since Elder Flanagan had always been understanding about Kurt’s condition—or as much as a hormonal heterosexual teenager could be. He had a cousin who was gay, and friends he’d gone to school with, and unlike some other of Kurt’s companions, he hadn’t hidden in the bathroom every time they had to change clothes for fear his half-nakedness would inflame Kurt’s desires.

Though apparently Kurt’s scolding was enough to get Elder Flanagan to think it through, because he had the propriety to blush and stammer. “Not a _straight_ man. Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

They walked past a bakery that smelled of yeast and caramelized sugar, then a drug store with a advertisement in the window that featured a topless woman showering with some fancy new bath gel. Elder Flanagan glanced at the ad, then at Kurt. “Since this is our last day working together, I hope you don’t mind if I’m bold for a minute.”

“Bold in the gospel?” _That would be a refreshing change._

“You wish. But I am trying to get better at that. I really am. It’s just … you know. Ireland. Talking about religion never got you very far. But you’re helping me get better at it, Elder Hummel. Forget my own … _compunctions_ … and think about the Lord’s instead.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Elder Flanagan.”

“It’s true. I know I still fall short of the mark, and I must be driving you mad, having to deal with me, but … Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Can I ask you a personal question? If you don't mind…?”

“I suppose.” Kurt meant he supposed he _did_ mind, but he knew Elder Flanagan would take it the other way, as permission to proceed.

“Why do you stay in the church?”

Kurt stiffened. He knew where this was going, had known since Elder Flanagan broached the subject. And yet it still felt like a punch from out of the blue. Always did. “You’ve heard my testimony.”

“Well, yes. But I mean … What’s in it for you? For me, that’s easy to answer. The harder I work on my mission, the hotter my wife will be—”

“She won’t be much of a looker, then.”

“—and she’ll grow even more beautiful in the eternities. Plus, I’ve been thinking. There are more women than men in the world, right? And women are generally more righteous. So there will be more lasses than lads in heaven, but still all those lasses will need husbands, because you can’t have exaltation without marriage. So, maybe in heaven we’ll have to reinstate polygamy, and I’ll have to make the noble sacrifice and have _two_ beautiful wives, or maybe even _three._ Just think! They’ll be happy, and I’ll be _very_ happy, with all those doors to knock—“

“You don’t need to elaborate, Elder Flanagan,” Kurt said drily. “And I would be a poor trainer if I didn’t point out to you that the only reason the church ever practiced polygamy was to care for widows. It’s not a spiritual principle. Besides, statistically speaking, there’s more boys than girls born every year. They just die sooner. So the numbers will probably be even.”

“I never thought of that.” Elder Flanagan was uncharacteristically quiet for a few paces. “Right. Well. My one wife will be so beautiful, I’ll never tire of her. But what about you, Elder Hummel?”

“What about me?”

“What does heaven have for you? Because that’s the whole point of what the church is about, isn’t it? Marriage, sex, family.”

“The gospel is not about sex, Elder Flanagan.”

“Maybe. Not about meaningless sex, but there’s only one way to make all those babies we need to have in order to provide bodies for all the spirits waiting for a turn on earth. And when we become gods, how do you think we’re going to make our own spirit children?”

“I don’t dwell on the mechanics, Elder Flanagan. But to give you some food for thought, God made the earth and all the animals that dwell on it. You don’t think that was through sex, do you?”

Elder Flanagan pursed his lips, giving the question real thought. “Probably not.” And then, “But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

“No?”

“No. Because even without the sex, I like girls. I mean, _really_ like them. I can’t imagine anything better than coming home every day to a pretty wife. And I think, if I were in love, any woman would be pretty to me, even if she’s not objectively the most beautiful woman in the world. Because she's not just there to gawk at. What I really want is a girl to share my dreams with, and to sit with when I watch the tellie, and to snuggle up with when I go to bed at night. Someone who will balance out my stupidity with her smarts, and look at me like I’m important. I want a friend, really, but more than a friend. You know what I mean? ”

“I do.”

“And you want that with a man, don’t you?”

A knife twist in the gut. “I don’t want anything that contradicts the gospel.”

Elder Flanagan chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “No, no. I don’t suppose you do. Maybe _want_ isn’t the right word. More like … the space inside of you that feels like it’s missing something—well, assuming you have one like I do—that _longing_ … It’s for a man, isn’t it?”

Kurt took a deep breath. “I think the thing all of us most long for is closeness with God.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that. But that doesn’t make the other longings disappear, does it?”

“No,” Kurt said, even though it was saying too much.

“But that’s why you stay, is it? Because your longing for God is bigger than your longing for a husband?”

 _A husband_. No member had ever used that word with Kurt before. Not in this context. Not to mean someone that Kurt could love in the way that they loved their wives. It seemed to quicken that particular longing, but his answer was still the same. “Yes, Elder Flanagan. God always comes first.”

“Even if he doesn’t give you a husband in the afterlife?”

Kurt unconsciously clenched his jaw. “He’s given me so much already. I don’t need to ask for anything else. And anyway, I won’t want a …” Kurt couldn’t bring himself to say _husband._ “When this life is over, he’ll give me desires that fulfill his purposes.”

“So once you die, you’ll think that women are hot?”

It was hard to believe, but that’s what the Brethren promised. If Kurt didn’t understand it on a gut level, if such desires seemed anathema to the way that God had created him, it was only because Kurt didn’t see the whole picture. When he got to heaven, everything would be made clear. “I guess I will.”

They reached the Omnibusbahnhof and waited for their bus to arrive. Two minutes later, they were on their way to the train station. Kurt looked at his watch as a backdrop of bicyclists and old brick buildings rolled past the bus windows. “Good. We should get there before their train arrives.”

“Elder Hummel, no offence, but you’re awfully obsessed with punctuality. You’re more severe than the Germans. Honestly, I don’t understand the big deal. If we’re a few minutes late, we’re a few minutes late. We could just text Thompson and Anderson and to let them know when we’ll get there.”

“First of all, our cell phone is for communicating with investigators, not for sending excuses to other missionaries. Second, it’s rude to be late.”

“It’s not rude in Ireland.”

“We’re not in Ireland.”

Elder Flanagan shrugged. Perhaps he thought Ireland was wherever an Irishman was.

“Besides, we wouldn’t be just a few minutes late. Busses to the Hauptbahnhof run only every fifteen minutes, so we’d be fifteen minutes late. That’s a quarter of an hour. In a quarter of an hour, you can plan a whole gospel lesson. We’re on God’s time, not our own.”

“Is fifteen minutes much from an eternal perspective, though?”

“We don’t have eternity to serve our missions. Only two years. One hundred and four weeks. And since you’ve spent six weeks at the Missionary Training Center and eight weeks with me, that means you have only ninety weeks left. Use them in a way that would make your Heavenly Father proud.”

Elder Flanagan frowned. “I _do_ want to make my Heavenly Father proud, you know. I just think that, sometimes, there might be more than one way to do that.”

*

Even if they hadn’t worked together before, Elder Thompson’s appearance made it impossible for Kurt to miss him, and not because his was the only dark brown face in a stream of pale, wintry-white ones disembarking from the train. It was what he wore on his lapel: a 3-inch wide by 2-inch high sturdy acrylic name tag with thick white letters on a black background. Even with Elder Thompson more than twenty meters away, far out of the range of reading distance, it would be recognizable to any church member—and many non-members—as designating one of the Lord’s missionaries.

“Elder Thompson!” Kurt shouted over the hubbub of disembarking passengers, raising his hand high above his head to make himself more visible.

Elder Thompson’s head turned and he flashed a smile in Kurt and Flanagan’s direction before stopping a few strides away from the passenger car’s open door to wait for his companion, who Kurt could now see stepping off behind a short, white-haired woman who couldn’t have been younger than eighty but nonetheless looked stout as a mule as she chattered on in a loud, unintelligible Bavarian. The missionary was slightly less short, with thick black hair swept back with enough Brylcreem to power a small city. It was a retro look that should have been laughable on someone so young, but when paired with the missionary’s earnest brown eyes, attentive smile and square hands folded neatly over luggage handles, it looked just as right as it had on Cary Grant.

A conductor standing at the exit door took the woman’s hand. She stepped onto the platform and turned, gesturing animatedly at the tapestry bag in the missionary’s left hand as he maneuvered down the metal steps. Kurt could only assume the tapestry bag was the lady’s, both because the missionary—Elder Anderson, obviously, it could be no one else—held it out to her once he reached the platform, and because an elder who dared to show up at the Missionary Training Center with anything as wonderfully gaudy as a tapestry bag would have had it confiscated and replaced with a more subdued suitcase. Besides, now that the crowd was moving away, Kurt could see that Elder Anderson held in his other hand a roll-on suitcase, to which was attached a suit bag. They had a coordinating herringbone pattern—conservative but unique. Kurt liked it.

Kurt and the others made their way over to the new guy just as the woman was taking her bag from him and saying something that sounded like a Norwegian speaking Gaelic through a pan flute. Kurt had served most of his mission in Bavaria and still understood almost nothing of the local dialect. He thought he caught a “Dankshee”— _Thanks_ —and something about “a fesche Bua”— _a handsome young man_ —but perhaps the second was just a misinterpretation based on the fact that the new missionary was, indeed, quite nice-looking.

“Gern geschehen!” he answered in standard German, his smile wide and his eyes all aglow. “Und bitte lesen Sie das Buch, und rufen Sie uns an, wenn Sie Fragen haben.” _My pleasure! And please read the book, and call us if you have any questions._

“Na eh, na eh,” said the old woman. Kurt had no idea what that meant, but given the way her eyelashes were fluttering at him, he figured it was something to the effect of, _Sure, cutie!_

Of course, it could be some kind of tic. She was old, after all.

But when she shook Elder Anderson’s hand in the standard German goodbye, she held onto him slightly longer than customary. So maybe she _was_ flirting with him.

Kurt couldn’t blame her. Elder Anderson, with his tailored brown suit and his glossy hair, looked like someone who would have starred on the silver screen right around the time she would have hit puberty.

Still holding her hand—she seemed to have no desire to let go—Elder Anderson turned his upper body toward the other missionaries, his nametag flashing in the sunlight. “Ah, und diese sind meine Freunde!” _These are my friends._

She chirped another sentence, and this time Kurt didn’t catch a single syllable. But she did finally let go of Elder Anderson’s hand and bid him goodbye with a smiling, “Servus!” before marching off.

“Could you understand what she was saying to you?” Kurt said, impressed. He knew almost nothing about Elder Anderson except that this was his first transfer in Bavaria. His language skills were genius if he’d already cracked the dialect.

Elder Anderson ducked his head in a bashful sort of way that made Kurt feel a bit bashful himself. “Not a word. Well, maybe a couple words? ‘Ja’ means the same thing in Bavarian as it does in German, right?”

“I sure hope so. Otherwise I’ve walked into people’s apartments when they were actually telling me to go away.”

Elder Anderson laughed. His lips were full and pink and his teeth had soft, rounded corners like river stones and the tip of his tongue was visible between them.

Elder Thompson patted Elder Anderson on the shoulder. “Apparently you don’t need to know the language when you listen to the Spirit! This guy placed _three_ Books of Mormon on our train ride. He’s unstoppable!”

Elder Anderson blushed, a subtle shift in color that looked not unlike the golden-pink of a ripe peach against the backdrop of his olive skin. “Don’t credit me. I’ve never given away that many in a day before. It was … circumstance.”

“Maybe. But you’re the one who took advantage of it.”

“I’m only doing what you taught me to, Elder Thompson.”

“I’ve never placed that many books on a train ride.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s because Germans are sort of …” Elder Anderson’s voice trailed off. “Well, you know.”

“Only sort of, though. Honestly, I got more suspicious looks back home than I do here.” Elder Thompson smoothed his palm over his close-cropped hair. Yup, Elder Flanagan was definitely in store for a haircut. “Besides, I think it’s less about the fact that I’m black and more about the fact that women turn to putty in your hands.”

“They do not!”

“I’m not implying unchivalrous intentions on your part, Elder Anderson. But they really like you. You must have noticed how much that last one was swooning over you.”

“She was ninety.” Elder Anderson ducked his head again in embarrassment

“She still has a heart.” Elder Thompson turned to Kurt and Elder Flanagan. “Seriously, the ones that don’t have designs on marrying him want to at least take him home and feed him dinner. I got more invitations to dinner at investigators’ homes this past transfer with Elder Anderson than I have on my whole mission. Women are like flies to flypaper around Elder Anderson. Especially the old ones. And the adorable thing is how clueless he is about it. He could charm the socks off of any of them, and then he’d wonder why they just handed him their socks. At least he uses his power for good.”

The peach coloring on Elder Anderson’s cheeks deepened. He pursed his lips and looked at Kurt through lowered lashes. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

They were the most earnest words Kurt had heard since his most recent baptism. And Kurt knew _exactly_ what Elder Thompson was talking about.

Oh boy. Not a good time to develop a crush. _Put it on the shelf,_ Kurt thought to himself. He had a pretend bookshelf that he kept in the back of his brain. He pictured it as made of cherry wood, with doors that he could lock to keep its contents safe. That’s where he stored any inconvenient thought that came to him on his mission.

Kurt shoved his thought in, slammed the door, and said, “I’m sure you’re an excellent missionary, Elder Anderson. I look forward to working with you.”

Elder Anderson looked at Kurt with wide brown eyes that made him look as youthful and innocent as a greenie. Or maybe even a Kewpie doll. Except less creepy than a Kewpie doll, and more cute. “Me too. Elder Thompson has said great things about you.”

Elder Thompson put a hand on Elder Anderson’s shoulder, then one on Kurt’s. “Elder Anderson, allow me to officially introduce you to Elder Hummel, the best trainer this side of the Atlantic, and Elder Flanagan, whom I can’t say anything flattering about because I’m only just meeting him for the first time myself.”

The elders laughed and started their round of hugs. Mormon missionaries were a huggy bunch, an attribute that had taken Kurt a while to get used to. Back home he’d rarely hugged anyone outside his family. Even when he’d been a kicker on the football team, the other guys rarely included him in the hug-fests that followed a good win. They just slapped him on the back or squeezed his shoulders. And that was fine with him. He liked to keep a buffer of empty space around himself most of the time. When someone reached into it, it often felt like an invasion.

Besides, he worried about inconvenient erections.

But hugging wasn’t so bad now that he’d gotten into the habit. Honestly, the hugs here were about as intimate as embracing a deck plank. The elders tended to keep their backs stiff and their chins high, never really relaxing into each other. He made sure to follow that general practice as he hugged Elder Anderson, even though something about the way Anderson’s double-breasted suit jacket skimmed over his body made Kurt want to hold on a little tighter. Elder Anderson smelled like raspberries and sun-warmed skin.

 _Shelf it._ Kurt let him go.

“I doubt I’m the _best_ trainer,” Kurt said as he gave Elder Thompson a manly squeeze.

“Then why has the mission president sent you four greenies in the past year?”

“Because he wanted to wear me out?” As he pulled away, Kurt realized that he was no longer shorter than Elder Thompson. At the previous year’s mission conference, Kurt’s eyes had been level with Elder Thompson’s mouth. Now they saw eye-to-eye.

“Oi!” chimed in Elder Flanagan. “Training me wasn’t all bad, was it? I taught you how to make colcannon!”

“True. There was that.” Kurt flashed a smirk at him before turning back to Thompson. “You should have him cook for you tonight. You’ve been traveling for what, five hours already?”

“Six, actually,” Elder Thompson answered. “But I think we have dinner with the zone leader tonight so he can give us an orientation to our new district. Speaking of which, we should check that the train to Munich is running on time.”

“We already did that when we got here,” said Elder Flanagan. “Elder Hummel’s as punctuality obsessed as a German. It leaves in about forty-five minutes. We can grab lunch while we’re waiting, if you want.”

Elder Thompson looked at Kurt. “Join us?”

Kurt frowned. “I’m sorry. We have appointments this afternoon. We should get the next bus to downtown so we have time to plan.”

“That’s great! Jumping in two feet first!” Elder Thompson slapped Elder Anderson on the back. “I told you Elder Hummel would be an amazing senior companion. I guess this is our official goodbye.”

They hugged again, goodbyes this time. Elder Flanagan grabbed onto Elder Anderson by both shoulders and said in a grave voice, “We’ve got a lot of responsibility on our hands, Elder Anderson. Both our seniors are nearing death.”

Elder Anderson smirked. _Death_ in missionary lingo simply meant flying home. It was April now, and both Kurt and Elder Thompson were scheduled to return to the States in July. “I’ll keep mine on life-support as long as possible, Elder Flanagan.”

“Good. I’ll do the same for Elder Thompson. Stand strong.” Elder Flanagan loosened his grip. “Though honestly, Elder Hummel’s the one who’s had me on life support all these weeks. He’s a good companion, Elder Anderson. A bit high-strung, but I love him. You will too.”

Kurt felt something rattle loose in his chest. Really, Elder Flanagan hadn’t been all that bad. Just a little crazy-making. And it was easy to drive Kurt crazy. That wasn’t Elder Flanagan’s fault. He was just young—still a teenager, and a bit mushy in the gospel. He’d be a lot stronger by the end of his mission.

That’s how it usually worked, anyway.


	2. The Worth of Souls

“Your tie is daring,” Kurt said to Elder Anderson in German after they’d settled into the seats on the return bus. He’d given his junior companion the window seat so he could get a better glimpse of his new home as they made their way downtown. The towering Hauptbahnhof, with its large plate glass windows and orange brick that almost looked pink in the noon sun, seemed to shrink inch by inch as the bus pulled away from it.

“Oh.” Elder Anderson looked down at himself and brushed his fingertips over the aforementioned accessory. It was a lightweight cotton woven from pink, turquoise, tangerine and mint-green threads into a cheerful Madras plaid, the colors broken by an occasional strand of white. Kurt had a weakness for Madras, though he didn’t usually wear it himself. He was too pale to pull off so many colors at once. “Is it … too much?” Elder Anderson answered in German. “I can change when we get to the apartment.”

Kurt dared a look into Elder Anderson’s eyes. He’d avoided taking in the boy’s face as they’d waited at the bus stop, but he supposed now he really should try. They’d be living together for at least the next eight weeks, and probably through the end of Kurt’s mission. It was unavoidable. Besides, the more he looked at it, the more inured to it he would become. Familiarity didn’t necessarily breed contempt, but it did have a way of robbing Kurt’s attractions of their magic. That’s how it had worked with his step-brother, anyway.

But _oh._ Those eyes. There was a reason Kurt had never had a dog. It was because he and his dad were such suckers for hound-dog eyes that they knew they’d give in to anything the dog wanted and it would end up fat and lazy and peeing all over the house.

Elder Anderson had hound dog eyes. Earnest and warm, wanting so hard to please, so afraid that he might not. Kurt didn’t dare break his heart. At least not yet. “It’s not too much.”

“Are you sure? I know we’re not supposed to wear ties that draw attention—“

“It’s fine. I like it.”

Relief washed over Elder Anderson’s face. “Really? You do?”

Kurt nodded. “It suits you.” And then, because he really knew nothing about Elder Anderson at all except that he was an LDS missionary who charmed the socks off old German women and had the hound-doggiest eyes possible in someone who wasn’t an actual hound, Kurt added, “It goes well with your suit. There’s something about pastels with brown.” It made Kurt think of the first crocuses of spring breaking through the soil.

“Thank you.” Elder Anderson smiled, then nudged Kurt’s elbow and lean in to whisper conspiratorially, his breath brushing across the skin of Kurt’s neck, “I like your tie too.”

Kurt felt a rush of something both pleasant and terrifying in his chest. He clenched his muscles to make it go away. _Shelf. Shelf. Shelf._ He looked down at his own tie, a black rayon with pinpoint white stars so small that, unless you were really looking at them, you’d mistake them for polka dots. It was one of the ties he’d sewn in preparation for his mission out of one of the skirts his mother had worn while serving in Quebec. She’d been a missionary too. Kurt’s dad had wanted to marry her right out of high school, but she’d said no. All her life, she’d wanted to go on a mission. Falling in love wasn’t going to stop her.

His father had always said Kurt had gotten his strength from her. Kurt didn’t know if that was fair—his father was no slouch—but she had been an amazing woman. Kurt made a silent prayer for more of that strength now.

“Thank you. I made it.”

Elder Anderson’s eyebrows shot up. Kurt noticed for the first time that they were as thick as wooly bear caterpillars. That should have made them comical—Kurt was an ardent believer in brow sculpting regardless of gender—but somehow they seemed to fit perfectly with Elder Anderson’s face. “You made your own tie? That’s amazing! I tried doing that once, but I didn’t really get the whole thing about cutting the fabric across the bias. It didn’t hang right, so I had to turn it into a belt.”

Kurt eyed Anderson suspiciously. “You sew?”

“Not as well as you, obviously. But yeah, of course. My dad taught me. He said it was a skill every boy should have on his mission.”

Kurt smiled. “Then you’ll be the first junior companion I don’t have to teach how to sew when you lose a button?”

“Nope. I even know the matchstick trick,” Elder Anderson answered with a wink.

Kurt felt himself starting to blush, though he didn’t know why. There was nothing saucy about sticking a matchstick between a button and its fabric to keep from sewing it on too tight. He turned away from Elder Anderson and focused on a barrette a woman several seats in front of him wore in her hair. “Next you’re going to tell me your dad taught you how to cook, too.”

“Both my parents, actually. Different stuff, though. My mom’s from the Philippines, so we did lots of rice and fish, but my dad’s very much from Utah and grew up on stuff like mint brownies and potatoes of the burial.”

“Potatoes of the burial?” They were still speaking German. Kurt wondered if something had been lost in translation.

“Yeah. You don’t have them in … Where are you from?”

“Ohio.”

“Hmmm. I’ve always wanted to go to Ohio.”

Kurt had to look at Elder Anderson again. “You’re kidding me.”

“Of course not. That’s where Kirtland is.”

Oh. Of course. Kirtland had been the headquarters of the church in the 1830s. The first Latter-day Saint temple had been built there, but currently it was under the ownership of some heretical splinter group that kept it open to the public for tours instead of reserving it as a sacred space where worthy members could perform the ordinances necessary for salvation, the way a temple was meant to be. His dad had been interested in taking a day trip to the Kirtland Temple a few years before, but Kurt refused on principal. “I’ve never been to Kirtland, actually. I’m from Lima, on the other side of Ohio. Anyway, you were telling me about potatoes of the burial?”

“Oh, yeah. They’re … um. I’m not sure I know how to describe them in German.”

“You can use English, then.”

Elder Anderson made the switch seamlessly. “Okay. Well, they’re a casserole. Hash browns, cheese, cream of mushroom soup, sour cream, and crushed potato chips on top. They’re delicious.”

Kurt’s stomach grumbled. He liked to think his tastes were on the more refined side, but throw a can of cream soup and some cheese into just about anything, and he’d eat it. “And what are they called in English?”

“The same as in German: ‘funeral potatoes.’”

“Oh! Funeral potatoes!” Kurt had heard of those, though in Ohio people usually just called it “potato casserole” and made it with scalloped potatoes and cream of chicken soup. They’d served some after his mom’s funeral, which probably should have turned him off of them forever, but instead of getting tainted by negative emotions, they stood out as a bright piece of enjoyment on a difficult day. He would always be grateful to them for that.

“Yeah. What did I say?”

“You said … well, I guess you did say ‘funeral potatoes,’ more or less. I just translated it differently in my head.”

“To what?”

“‘Potatoes of the burial.’”

Elder Anderson laughed. Or not exactly _laughed_ , but spoke his words with the joy of a laugh in them, carried like a song on the vowels. “That sounds … dire.”

“Well, most things _do_ sound a bit more dire in German, don’t they?”

“Du hast mir recht,” Elder Anderson said threateningly, scraping the “r”s and “ch” from deep in the back of his throat. It meant _You’re right._

Kurt stifled a giggle. He didn’t want the other passengers to think they were making fun of the language, even if they kind of were. It was the kind of teasing one would reserve for a sibling or a friend. Even though Kurt’s first reaction to finding out the Brethren had assigned him to Germany had been disappointment—he’d wanted to follow in his mother’s footsteps to Quebec or France, and had studied French in earnest for five years—he had grown to love German in his time here.

“So, are you from Utah, then?” Kurt said.

“Arizona, actually. I was born in Provo, but we moved to Arizona when I was three. Mesa. It’s not as Mormony as Provo, but it’s pretty Mormony compared to here.”

Kurt had never been to Provo, but of course he’d heard of it. Provo was the home to Brigham Young University, the church’s largest school and one that Kurt was considering attending when he returned from his mission. “Did your parents teach at BYU?”

Elder Anderson shook his head. “No. My dad’s in business.”

“What kind of business?”

Elder Anderson shrugged. “Buying stuff and selling stuff. Real estate, patents, home cleaning products … I can’t really keep track. I know I should care more about that kind of thing if I want to support a family, but it all makes my eyes kind of glaze over.”

Kurt nodded sympathetically. “My dad owns an auto shop. I don’t mind repairing cars or balancing books, but it’s not something I want to do for the rest of my life.”

“What _do_ you want to do?”

Kurt hesitated. He didn’t usually divulge so much about himself upon meeting a new companion. It was usually best for them to catch on to how … _unusual …_ he was bit by bit—like putting the frog in the proverbial pot of water and raising the temperature so slowly it didn’t notice it was getting cooked.

Not that knowing the truth would harm his companions. Kurt was more worried that _he_ was the one who would end up hurt.

On the other hand, Elder Anderson had been impressed by the fact that Kurt could make his own clothes. Maybe he would at least be accepting of Kurt’s dream vocation, too.

“It’s kind of silly,” Kurt said.

“I bet it’s not, though.”

“You haven’t heard it yet.”

“Try me.”

Kurt cleared his throat. “I’ve always thought it would be nice to design clothes? A lot of women’s haute couture is really immodest, with plunging necklines and bare shoulders, and I want to make things LDS women can wear without compromising their principles. Stuff that can be worn over garments. For men, too, though the need isn’t quite as pressing.”

Elder Anderson said nothing. He simply studied Kurt with a smile. The expression on his face was almost dreamy. Or, well, not quite, because it couldn’t be. Maybe—it was hard for Kurt to tell, having just met Elder Anderson, but it seemed to be a look of admiration.

No. It couldn’t be.

“What?” Kurt blurted out when he couldn’t take the suspense any longer.

Elder Anderson’s smile didn’t falter. “I was just thinking you’d probably be really good at that.”

“How would you know?”

Elder Anderson shrugged again. “I guess I don’t. But your tie is _amazing,_ and the more I’ve looked at your suit, the more I’ve suspected that it’s not off the rack. It’s too well-fitted, and the buttons— Anyway. You made it, didn’t you?”

Kurt looked down to inspect himself again. He had on the suit he’d sewn with fabric special-ordered from a supplier in San Francisco’s garment district, black with fine silver pinstripes that weren’t noticeable unless one stood close. He felt that damnable heat rise again to his face. “Yes. But I used a pattern.”

“Most designers _do_ use patterns at first.”

“And you know this how?”

“I’ve watched _Project Runway,_ ” Elder Anderson said proudly.

Kurt bit his tongue. Only a straight boy from a Mormon backwater like Mesa would say something like that without a hint of irony. He probably didn’t even realize that most of the male designers on it were gay.

He probably had no idea _Kurt_ was gay.

It was a time for a change of topic. “Tell me about Mesa. Did you have early morning seminary there, or release-time seminary?” Kurt had gotten up at five in the morning every day of high school to attend seminary in the back of a chiropractor’s office for an hour before the public school day began. Here in Ingolstadt, teen Saints were so few and far between that they didn’t even have that. But kids who lived in areas with lots of Mormons usually got to go to seminary during something called “release time,” a daily block in the school schedule where kids could leave the school campus to receive religious instruction.

“Release time. The seminary building was right across the street from our high school. It was great. You probably didn’t have that, did you?”

“No. But getting up for early morning seminary each day prepared me for life as a missionary, so I can’t complain.”

Elder Anderson smiled. “Elder Thompson told me you had a great attitude. It’s so true.”

Kurt almost swallowed his tongue. _Great attitude_ was not a phrase he’d use to describe himself. Oh, well. It was just as well that he and God were the only people who could see what happened inside his head. “That’s nice of him to say.”

“In my experience, Elder Thompson only says things that are true.”

Kurt had to look away because Elder Anderson was again giving him those sincere hound-dog eyes. “Tell me your favorite Scripture Mastery verse from seminary.”

“I don’t know. I always have trouble picking favorites. I feel like I’m abandoning the others.”

“When trying to pick a favorite scripture verse, or when you’re trying to pick anything?”

“Anything, usually. Did Elder Thompson tell you I used to volunteer at an animal shelter?”

“No, he did not.” But Kurt wasn’t surprised. He could see it perfectly, now that Elder Anderson had mentioned it. He was so … sweet. Animals probably flocked to him the same way old women did. A Mormon St. Francis.

“Yeah. Well, my poor mom doesn’t have any kids at home, but she’s got seven cats to take care of.”

_“Seven?”_

“Yup,” Elder Anderson said sheepishly. “In my defense, cats are a lot easier to take care of than dogs. Also, I probably fostered more than thirty when I was in high school. So it’s not like I kept _all_ of them. And our house is really big. We could probably fit five more and nobody would notice.”

“Whoever has to clean the litter boxes would.”

“I trained most of them to use the toilet.”

Kurt couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. We have one bathroom that belongs to the cats, and a few litter boxes for emergencies. It works out.”

“What are you? The cat whisperer?”

“No. You can train a cat to do just about anything if you give it enough treats, as long as what you’re trying to teach them isn’t against their nature.”

Kurt eyed Elder Anderson. “We’ve veered far from Scripture Mastery.”

“I didn’t mean to. Just trying to show you how hard it is for me to pick just one favorite.”

“Okay. Don’t pick a favorite then. Pick the one that speaks to you the most. After all, that’s why God gave us so many scriptures, right? Each talks to different people in different times and situations.”

“Well, when you put it that way … Can you help me narrow it down, though? Which year of seminary?”

Seminary had been divided according to collections of scripture. In Kurt’s freshman year, they had studied the Old Testament and The Pearl of Great Price. Sophomore year had been New Testament. Junior year had been the Book of Mormon, and his senior year had been Doctrine and Covenants.

“Doctrine and Covenants,” Kurt said, because it had the fewest good quotable passages, which would either make Elder Anderson’s choice really easy or really hard.

Elder Anderson looked at the bus ceiling as he thought it over. “Doctrine and Covenants, section eighteen, verses ten and eleven: ‘Remember the worth of souls is great in the sight of God; for, behold, the Lord your Redeemer suffered death in the flesh; wherefore he suffered the pain of all men, that all men might repent and come unto him.’”

“Why that one?”

“The worth of all souls. Heavenly Father doesn’t want to lose a single one of us.”

Kurt had that strange feeling in his chest again. Warm and good and just on the edge of too much.

“What about yours?” Elder Anderson nudged Kurt’s elbow. Something like electricity, like the Holy Ghost, ran from Kurt’s elbows to his fingertips. “Do you have a favorite?”

Kurt didn’t have to think about that. “‘Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not.’”

Elder Anderson’s eyes lit with recognition. “D&C 6:36. That’s a beautiful one.”

Kurt looked down at his lap. “I get anxious a lot. It helps.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“That I get anxious a lot? Or that it helps?”

“That you get anxious. You have this air about you. Like you know where you belong and where you’re going. Confidence.”

“That’s because I’ve lived in Ingolstadt longer than you. I _do_ know where I’m going.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, appearances aren’t always what they seem.”

“No, I guess not.”

They were about to cross the Danube River. Kurt pointed past Elder Anderson, out the window and toward the green water below. “Johann Strauss was wrong when he named his waltz. _The Blue Danube_ is rarely blue. But I love it all the same.”

“Elder Hummel?” Elder Anderson said with a smile. He was looking at Kurt, not at the river.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to love working with you.”


	3. Creator and Created

Blaine Anderson liked his new companion. That shouldn’t have been surprising, because Blaine had liked all of his companions so far. He tended to like people in general.

But there was something different about Elder Hummel. Something more. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever it was made him feel a connection that was deeper than he’d known with anyone else—not based on history, but on who they were at some fundamental level.

Silly, to feel that way about someone he’d just met. But it was true. And maybe it wasn’t silly at all. Maybe it was the Holy Ghost guiding Blaine, telling him to pay attention, preparing him to learn.

The prophets taught that souls were eternal, that each of us has existed as long as Heavenly Father has. Abraham saw a vision in which the Lord showed him “the intelligences that were organized before the world was; and among all these there were many of the noble and great ones; And God saw these souls that they were good.”

And Joseph Smith taught that “Man was also in the beginning with God. Intelligence, or the light of truth, was not created or made, neither indeed can be.”

There was something in Elder Hummel’s eternal soul that spoke to Blaine’s eternal soul.

Blaine wanted to say something about it, ask Elder Hummel if he felt the same thing. But he couldn’t figure out a way to say it that wouldn’t sound weird. Blaine wasn’t good with talking about his feelings. He always had trouble finding words that fit them.

So instead he asked, “What’s Ohio like?” as they made their way down a cobblestone street toward wherever Elder Hummel was leading him. Presumably the apartment, though Elder Hummel had not actually said. He’d been too busy pointing out places of interest—the best kiosk at which to buy warm pretzels with butter, the bakery he favored, the butcher who wasn’t a church member but nonetheless had a soft spot for them and always gave them good deals on meat. But for the past few paces, Elder Hummel had been quiet, lost in thought, and Blaine wanted to hear his voice again. It was smooth and lyrical, like a cello at midrange. Blaine wanted to know everything he could about his new senior companion.

“Kind of like Bavaria, I guess, But without the all the old buildings.” Elder Hummel gestured to the left side of the street at a row of four- and five-story shops with their arched doorways and stepped roofs that looked like they were out of some storybook, each with a facade washed in a different bright pastel the color of some sweet food: vanilla custard, kiwi, apricot, guava, banana, strawberry yogurt. When the colors had been chosen centuries before, bananas would have been an exotic fruit from a faraway land. The painters had likely never heard of them, but thought instead of duckling feathers or daisies as they worked the soft yellow into the stucco. “Four seasons. Snowy winters, rainy spring weather. Lots of farmland outside the cities. Our summers are a little hotter than here. But otherwise it’s pretty much the same. Without the mountains.”

Green, then. That lush, boisterous green that had almost overwhelmed Blaine when he came to Europe last summer, so effulgent with life that he’d had to close his eyes sometimes and remind himself that he wasn’t in heaven yet. “That sounds beautiful.”

Elder Hummel gave Blaine an impenetrable look. “I don’t usually think of Ohio as beautiful. It’s kind of … pedestrian, really.”

 _Pedestrian._ Blaine became aware of the cobblestones beneath his feet, the _clickety-clack_ of his suitcase wheels behind him. “You say pedestrian like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, ‘pedestrian’ literally means a person who walks, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, back in Arizona everything was so far apart and the weather was so hot you couldn’t really walk anywhere. You stayed indoors or in a car—maybe a bike if you could bring water with you. But here, you can walk almost anywhere. You notice so many more things when you walk. Architecture, people—you get the chance to really look around. I love that about Germany. It’s given me a new appreciation for …” _Art_ was the word that popped into Blaine’s mind, but it wasn’t the right one. His English was getting rusty after almost a year in Germany. He shuffled through his bank of words, considered and dismissed several English and German possibilities until he found the right ones. “God’s creation and … man’s ingenuity. I’ve become a pedestrian here.”

Elder Hummel smiled. But it was more than a smile. He’d given Blaine that look on the bus, too, his eyes squinting slightly and one eyebrow raised. It made Blaine feel like he was being inspected under a magnifying glass, but not in a bad way. It was as if Elder Hummel had found a rock somewhere and, upon close inspection, realized it wasn’t just another piece of feldspar, but an honest-to-goodness diamond.

Blaine had been many things in his life, but a diamond had never been one of them.

“You know what that makes me think of?” said Elder Hummel, and before Blaine had a chance to guess, his voice augmented into song. “‘Ein armer Fußgänger, reich an Qual, hat oftmals meinen Dienst begehrt …’” _A poor pedestrian, rich in grief, hath often crossed me on my way …_

If Elder Hummel’s voice had been a cello before, now it was—what was more beautiful than a cello? A Stradivarius? Blaine had had the opportunity to hear one at the Gewandhaus Leipzig a few months before, and it had almost brought him to tears. But this—this was human, and even more sacred.

“You’re not going to sing with me?” Elder Hummel’s voice was one part disappointment and one part teasing. “You know it, don’t you?”

“‘[A Poor, Wayfaring Man of Grief](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ylplmSaVmQ0)’? In English, yes. I’m not sure about the German.”

“I’ll have to teach you, then. Learning hymns is a great way to study the language. Unless you don’t like to sing?”

“No. I love to sing. I was in show choir in high school.”

“I was in glee club.” That look again. Elder Hummel seemed remarkably pleased. “I think you’re right. We’ll get along wonderfully.”

Elder Hummel guided Blaine left around a corner, then the next right, naming the streets as he went. Blaine repeated each name at least twice out loud, something he had learned to do after getting lost seven times in the first five days of his mission. His ability to navigate strange places still wasn’t perfect, but it was getting a lot better.

They made their way into the side door of a five-story building with a women’s shoe store on the street level. “And this,” Elder Hummel said as they climbed the first flight of stairs, “is part of your daily exercise regimen, brought to you by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” By the time they’d finished the second flight—then the third, then the fourth—and ascended onto the final landing, Blaine understood why. Even though he was in pretty good shape and had tracted plenty of apartment buildings, he’d rarely had to climb so many flights while lugging a suitcase and messenger bag. He was panting a little now, and sweat bloomed under his arms despite his lack of a coat over his suit jacket.

Elder Hummel smiled. “You’ll get used to it. And it’s kind of nice in its own way. On days when it rains, we sometimes run up and down the stairs for morning exercise. You just have to be careful not to annoy the neighbors. Plus, when you look out the bedroom windows, you can see the sky.”

“I like the sky,” Blaine said, and immediately felt foolish.

Elder Hummel didn’t laugh, though. “Good. If the ambient light doesn’t bother you, we can keep the blinds open at night. You can fall asleep under the stars that way. The windows are skylights.”

“That sounds nice.”

Elder Hummel pulled his keys out of an inner pocket of his coat and unlocked the apartment door. “Welcome to your new home, Elder Anderson. Coats go here unless you prefer the closet.” He pointed to a row of hooks hanging at eye level just inside the entryway, then shed his coat and hung it up along with his keys.

A flash of blue caught Blaine’s eyes. It was Elder Hummel’s key fob, cylindrical and the size of a brass bullet shell from one of Grandpa Anderson’s hunting rifles, but a rich blue veined with silver and gold like a fine piece of cloisonné.

“Is that your consecrated oil vial?” Blaine said, gesturing to the fob as he took off his suit jacket. “I’ve never seen one like that.” Blaine had his own vial, as well—all the missionaries carried one around in case they needed to bless a sick or injured person in an emergency. But his was made of steel-coated brass and really did look like a bullet. Security had given him the third degree about it when he had flown from Manchester to Munich and forgot to remove it from his pocket before going through the scanner.

Elder Hummel looked up from where he was crouched, untying his shoes. “Yeah. My dad and I made a matching pair before I went on my mission. One for him and one for me.”

“Really? You made this? Can I—?” Blaine’s fingers hovered near the fob, a hummingbird suspended in flight.

Back when Blaine was in elementary school, before he’d started volunteering at the shelter, there had been a stray cat that made its home under his family’s back deck. Whenever he’d tried to approach it, its body would stiffen and its hair stand on end so that it looked like an oversized bottlebrush. Even when he had food in his hand, it was terrified of him, distrustful, its eyes wide and carefully tracking him, its hair standing on end. For a fraction of a second, Blaine could have almost sworn that cat was in front of him again, wary lest he make a threatening move. Elder Hummel’s body went stiff in just the same way—stone still, as if he was willing himself invisible.

But then Elder Hummel stood, a smile on his face, and Blaine couldn’t help but wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing. “You want to have a closer look at it? Go ahead. It’s not as fragile as it looks.” Elder Hummel removed the key fob from the rack and set it in Blaine’s hands.

Blaine took the keychain off the hook. It wasn’t as heavy as he had expected; whatever material the vial was made of was lighter than china. He turned it around and around. A bright golden sun was etched on one side, its rays reaching like tendrils to the other side, where a white sliver of moon rose into a star-specked sky. Each silver star had five points, and the sky was a deep turquoise that reminded him of the Arizona sky just before sunset.

The vial was still warm from Elder Hummel’s body, and the pattern also seemed to hold something of him, in a way that Blaine couldn’t quite explain. Maybe it was the silver-flecked blue of the background, reminiscent of Elder Hummel’s eyes. _Azurblau_ , Blaine thought in German, though he wasn’t sure that was the right word for the color he was seeing. Or perhaps it was the pattern’s complexity. Elder Hummel was easily the most interesting missionary Blaine had met—and he’d met some fascinating ones so far on his mission. Talking to Elder Hummel, being with him, was like opening up a Russian nesting doll. Instead of finding emptiness inside, Blaine discovered another inner layer as intricate as the last.

“It’s Doctrine and Covenants, section seventy-six.”

Blaine looked up, startled.

Elder Hummel raised a brow. “The pattern. We used D&C 76 as our inspiration.”

Fragments of scripture appeared in Blaine’s head, unbidden, describing the three realms of heaven and their inhabitants: the bodies “celestial, whose glory is that of the sun, even the glory of God”; the “bodies terrestrial … differ[ing] in glory as the moon differs from the sun”; and “the glory of the telestial, which glory is that of the lesser, even as the glory of the stars differs from that of the glory of the moon in the firmament.”

“It’s beautiful, Elder Hummel. I can’t believe—” Blaine stopped himself. He’d been about to say he couldn’t believe Elder Hummel could have made something so exquisite. But of course he could. He’d sewn his own suit and tie, and those were exquisite too. They made Elder Hummel look the way a man should look: strong and imposing, possessing the dignity that all who were created in the image of God would carry if they only understood their origins and their potential. Blaine looked at him, studying his face and his hands. His long, nimble fingers. Those were the hands of a creator. “It’s amazing.”

Elder Hummel turned pink. Blaine liked that for reasons he couldn’t explain. “I can’t take any credit. It was one part browsing through Etsy, three parts the Holy Ghost.”

“Maybe. But you listened to the Holy Ghost, didn’t you?”

“And to my father. He’s a convert. D&C 76 is one of the reasons. He was raised Lutheran, and it never made sense to him that children in Libya or India or Vietnam who had never heard of Jesus would be sentenced to Hell by a loving God. But D&C 76 shows that we all get a chance at some kind of glory.” Elder Hummel bent down and finished removing his shoes. He set them on a small wooden shelf next to the front door. “When I was preparing for my ordination into the Melchizedek priesthood, my dad asked me to look online at different kinds of consecrated oil vials to figure out what I’d like to carry. I found a bunch on Etsy made of Sculpey clay, but a lot of them were kind of … tacky. Football team colors, hunting camouflage. That kind of thing. Then this idea came to me. It became our father-son bonding project.”

“That’s awesome. You two are close?”

“Yes. Very.” He looked like he was about to say something else, but instead turned to face the hooks again and removed his suit jacket.

Blaine wished he had that kind of relationship with his dad. And they had, a little, when Blaine was younger. But ever since his dad had been called to the Sixth Quorum of the Seventy, there hadn’t been as much time for just hanging out. His dad was always off doing something for the church, from training stake presidents and planning stake conferences to helping the local mission presidents. He seemed to have a meeting to go to almost every night of the week—except for Family Home Evening, of course.

But even Family Home Evening wasn’t what it used to be. It had gone from a night of church-themed board games and watching Living Scriptures cartoons to a cursory devotional before his dad went into his office to deal with church paperwork.

Blaine’s dad had missed dinner and show choir performances and the opening night of the high school’s production of West Side Story, even though Blaine had played Tony. He’d tried to make it up to Blaine with the occasional squash game, and once with the grand gesture of buying an old Chevy Bel Air to fix up—but that was just another sign of how far apart they’d grown. If his father had known Blaine at all, he’d have known that Blaine didn’t care about mechanical things. He cared about art and people, about emotions and matters of the heart.

Blaine realized he was still holding the fob. He didn’t particularly want to let it go, but it would be weird to steal your companion’s consecrated oil vial within an hour of starting work together. Maybe later, once they knew each other better, they could swap them for a day, just for a change of pace. Which was a ridiculous idea, of course. Swapping neckties and socks was par for the course among missionaries, but consecrated oil vials? Even Blaine knew that was a little weird.

“Here,” Blaine said, holding his hand out. “I’ll stop hogging your vial.”

“I don’t mind,” Elder Hummel said, and he seemed to mean it, though he took the vial and hung it back up on the wall. “But we should probably get to work. We have two appointments this afternoon, and then dinner with some investigators. I’ll give you the tour of the place after we go over today’s schedule. You’ll wait to unpack until then, if we have enough time before we need to leave. I’ve found that’s the best way to get a companionship off on the right foot. Prayer and planning first, everything else second.”

Blaine’s brain was still stuck on _two appointments and then dinner with investigators_. “Three appointments? That’s amazing. People seemed very resistant to the gospel in Leipzig.”

“They’re resistant to the gospel here, too, but we still have to teach them. Just get out your planner, freshen up if you need to, and meet me at the dinette.” Elder Hummel gestured at the little Formica table, just big enough for two, that sat a few steps from the front door in what should probably be called the living room despite its tiny size. Blaine had seen mausoleums that were larger. It was separated from a kitchenette by a low wall. “I’ll get you something to drink. Water? Saft? We have apple or orange. Or if you like herbal tea, I’ve got rose hips and chamomile in the cupboard.”

It all sounded wonderful to Blaine, as bright and delicious as Elder Hummel’s portrait of the heavens. “I’ll have whatever you’re having. I trust you.”

When Blaine emerged from the bathroom, he found Elder Hummel setting the table with a teapot, honey, two mismatched mugs, and six butter cookies on a small plate. Blaine’s stomach made an anticipatory grumble as he reached into his satchel for his planner and pen. Since his pre-dawn breakfast in Leipzig eight hours earlier, all he’d eaten was a half a small bag of potato chips he’d shared with Elder Thompson. He could deal with hunger—his first missionary companion had been a big proponent of prayerful fasting, so he’d _had_ to learn to deal with it—but he was glad he wouldn’t have to.

“Thanks, Elder Hummel. That looks delicious.” Blaine pulled the chair opposite Elder Hummel out from under the table and pulled it around so that he could sit next to his new companion instead.

Elder Hummel’s expression turned once again to that of a stray cat being too closely approached.

“Oh. I can— Do you want me to sit across from you? I just thought it would be easier if I could see your planner.”

Elder Hummel’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s fine. Sorry. I’m just— I get used to things being a certain way. You’d think I’d be over it after almost two years in the mission field, but …” He waved his hand as if he were swatting a fly away.

“I don’t need an apology for that. I should have asked first, anyway. You _are_ my senior companion.”

“Not your boss, though. Which reminds me, I'm used to being sent greenies fresh off the boat to train, not more seasoned missionaries, so please be patient with me if I accidentally talk down to you. That’s another bad habit of mine.” Elder Hummel’s eyes stopped flitting around the table and settled on Blaine’s face.

Blaine thought he should probably say something—maybe list one of his own numerous character flaws so Elder Hummel would know the work he was in store for. But he was too distracted by the sudden realization that indoors, or at least here in the living room, under the tint of artificial light, his senior companion’s eyes no longer looked blue.

They were now green like the Danube, and just as beautiful.

“Elder Anderson?”

“Uh huh?”

“Are you alright?”

“Um …” Blaine looked down at his planner and the blank afternoon that needed to be filled. He lifted his pen. “Of course. Let’s start.”


	4. Unfold the Heavens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a good time to say that story is about characters with specific worldviews who, like anyone, don’t always understand people from other cultures and religions. Therefore, do not take any representation that they make about German culture, Arabic-speaking cultures, Native American history, ancient Israel, Islam, Catholicism, Protestantism, etc., at face value. They probably got something wrong.

Their first appointment that afternoon was with Doro and Stefan, a cohabitating couple who were friends of one of the Ingolstadt Branch members. There had been an embarrassing moment of misunderstanding during planning when it became obvious that Elder Anderson’s thought that Doro was a man, and that the reason “he” and Stefan were hesitant to join the church was that they were gay. It might have been an opportunity for Kurt to mention his own attractions, but up until now he’d always depended on the Holy Ghost to signal the right time to tell a companion, and he wasn’t going to change that now. The Holy Ghost was silent, so Kurt stuck to the matter at hand.

“No. ‘Doro’ is short for ‘Dorothea,’” Kurt had said, and Elder Anderson’s caterpillar eyebrows shot up halfway to his hairline.

“Oh. _Oh._ Well. That simplifies things.”

Kurt had to admit it did, even if it made his stomach sink to acknowledge it. Cohabitating straights could become members of the church if they got married, but the only way for cohabitating gays to join was if they broke up and committed to a life of celibacy. Even if Kurt was committed to celibacy himself, contemplating enforcing it on others made him feel like a homewrecker.

Doro and Stefan lived up toward the Audi Museum, a nice ten minute bike ride from the apartment. Elder Anderson followed Kurt along the narrow streets on Elder Flanagan’s old bike, sometimes next to Kurt, sometimes falling behind him to let a car pass by. “Ingolstadt feels so much cozier than Leipzig,” Blaine said as he pulled up next to Kurt at a red light.

“Well, Leipzig _is_ five times as big.”

“And I guess everything feels cozier without Soviet concrete-slab architecture.”

Kurt grimaced and turned to face Elder Anderson. The wind had tousled his hair slightly so that a single curl fell loosely across his forehead. Kurt had the urge to brush it back in place. He clenched his handlebars. “Did you have to live in one of those?”

“Yeah. But I kind of liked it. It reminded me a little of living in a monastic cell.”

Kurt had never seen a monastic cell and didn’t want to. The apartments he’d lived in as a missionary had been sparse enough, with only the lowest-common-denominator sorts of decorations: photos of the First Presidency, paintings of Jesus, a poster of the Freiberg Temple, one or two framed inspirational quotations and, if he was lucky, a bucolic painting of Swiss cattle grazing on the foothills of the Alps. Kurt’s tastes were more eclectic. Some might call them eccentric. His bookshelves at home displayed a bird skulls; rocks and driftwood from summers on Lake Erie; a collection of cicada moltings, and the carcasses of several enormous beetles posed with miniature violins and cellos instruments in a creepy string quartet. He’d ordered the last one from a taxonomy artist he’d discovered on Etsy, using some of the money he’d earned working after school at his father’s auto shop—his last frivolous purchase before he began saving in earnest for his mission.

“A Mormon monastery,” Kurt said idly as they began pedaling again. “That’s a contradiction in terms.” The entire Plan of Salvation hinged on _not_ being monastic. You couldn’t get into the highest level of the celestial kingdom without being married. Otherwise, the best you could hope for was being a servant in an exalted couples’ household.

Elder Anderson laughed. “I guess it is.”

*

Like a lot of German women, Doro was tall, and in her Swedish clogs with the thick wooden soles, she came eye-to-eye with Kurt. He watched as she shook hands with Elder Anderson, looking down her nose to study his face, assessing him but also holding back judgment. Kurt often wished he had that skill. It was so well developed in so many of the Germans he met—to see the complexity of a thing, its beauty and its warts, so that they rarely gave anything unbridled praise. But condemnation was just as rare. Kurt lacked that objectivity. He tended to see things in black and white, and was quicker to judge people than a follower of Christ should be.

He knew this about himself, but it was so hard to change.

“Guten tag, Fräulein Doktor Hahnenwald,” Elder Anderson said to Doro. “Ich bin erfreut, Sie kennen zu lernen.” _Hello, Dr. Hahnenwald. I’m delighted to meet you._ It was a bit effusive for a German greeting, but it seemed somehow fitting and right coming from Elder Anderson. He really did look delighted to meet her. Kurt wondered if Elder Anderson was this way every time he met a new person—delighted at the chance to learn from them, at the chance to get to know another child of God. Living on earth was probably like an extended family reunion to him, as it should have been for anyone who knew the truth about where we came from. Elder Anderson was a much better Saint than Kurt.

“Grüss Gott, Elder Anderson, but call me Doro.” She added no pleasantry about meeting him. Germans rarely did. They were reserved and cautious. In that sense, Kurt felt right at home among them.

Doro pointed them to the living room before disappearing into the kitchenette. Stefan was already seated by the window, his German copy of the Book of Mormon and his Catholic Bible both open in his lap. He set them aside to stand and shake hands with both missionaries before settling back down and gesturing for them to sit on the loveseat across from the couch. Kurt noticed Elder Anderson’s gaze wander over the small crucifix by the bookshelf and an icon of a female saint—Kurt thought it was probably Mary, but Catholics had so many people they revered he could never be sure who was who—above the couch. It came across as mild curiosity, not gawking, which Kurt was grateful for. He’d had to lecture a few of his Utah greenies about the faces they made when they encountered Catholic accoutrements. Elder Anderson was no greenie, but his whole mission so far had been in the East. He wouldn’t have seen much Catholicism in Leipzig, where atheism was the most intransigent legacy of the old Communism.

“Elder Flanagan looks awfully different this week,” Stefan said drily as he took in Elder Anderson.

“I’m not—” Elder Anderson began, but it turned into a laugh as Stefan’s face broke into wicked grin.

“I know. We’ve been through a few missionaries already. We know you move around a lot.”

“He transferred to Munich,” Kurt said. “We would have told you last time if we’d known, but the call only came this past weekend. Elder Anderson just came here from Leipzig.”

Stefan laughed. “And now you’re in Ingolstadt? That must be a disappointment.”

“Not at all,” Elder Anderson said. “It’s so beautiful here.”

“It’s a sunny day,” Stefan said.

“It’s more than that. This is where God wants me to be right now. I can feel it.”

Stefan nodded solemnly. “I wish I could have your faith.”

“Actually, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” Kurt said as Doro came back into the living room with a tray of mineral water and Springerle cookies. Back at the apartment, he’d told Elder Anderson how Stefan had trained to become a Catholic priest until the sex abuse scandals led to a crisis of faith and that Doro was a cradle Catholic, but like Stefan, she didn’t attend church. She was a chemist and had a hard time believing something she couldn’t test in a lab. The missionaries had agreed that what Stefan and Doro most needed now was an ability to trust God, and the way to do that was to learn to recognize the Light of Christ in what was already happening in their lives. Kurt glanced between the two Germans and said, “You two have told me about your struggles with faith. How difficult it can be to believe without evidence. Today, we want to talk with you about the evidence that God sends us to show us that he exists, and that we need to follow his son Jesus Christ. May we pray?”

“Of course,” Doro said. “That’s why we invited you.”

Kurt nodded to Elder Anderson to give the opening prayer. Kurt always asked his juniors to do so on their first teaching assignment together. Transfers tended to rekindle every missionary’s fear of teaching. Asking them to pray was a way to start them feet first into their new mission field.

“Heavenly Father, thank you for this time today to speak with Stefan and Doro about your message for the world and your desire for our happiness. We ask that you help them feel and recognize your presence as we spend time together today. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

It was a good, simple prayer, without pretense or showiness. Kurt felt the warmth of the Spirit unfurl in his chest. Elder Anderson was a good missionary, without a doubt.

They began the day’s lesson by reading from Matthew, the first book of the New Testament: “Watch out for false prophets. They come to you like harmless sheep, but in truth, they are ferocious wolves. By their fruits you will recognize them. Do people pick grapes from thornbushes, or figs from thistles? Every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. … So, you will know them by their fruits.”

It was, perhaps, cheating. Though they’d never discussed it before, Kurt already knew Stefan’s relationship with this Bible passage. It was what had led him out of the Catholic church. One of the missionaries who had been in Ingolstadt prior to Kurt’s transfer there had noted it down in Stefan’s record, along with the note, _He said that, although he saw much goodness within Catholicism, it couldn’t be true if child molestation was a fruit of its priesthood._

Kurt looked at Stefan. “What does this passage mean to you?”

Stefan didn’t look up from his Bible. It was Doro who spoke. “If someone is on the side of God, it must show in their actions. If it doesn’t, they aren’t really following God.”

Elder Anderson spoke up. “Doro, Elder Hummel told me you’re a scientist?”

Doro nodded.

“In science, you look for evidence to discover if something is true or not, right?”

“Of course. That’s the whole scientific method.”

“What I think is so amazing about this passage is that it shows that God wants us to use the same approach with religion. When I was in Leipzig, people often told me that science and religion can’t go together. You must believe in one or the other. But that’s not the case. God wants us to look for evidence that a religion is true, and to evaluate that evidence.”

“But how do you do that? You can’t prove God exists, or that he doesn’t. It’s a metaphysical question, not a physical one.”

“I’m glad you asked that. Do you pray, Doro?”

“Sometimes.”

“And do you get answers to your prayers?”

She pursed her lips as she considered. “You mean, if I’m asking for something? I don’t know. I tend not to ask God to grant wishes. He has better things to do with his time.”

“But do you ever ask God for guidance? For help in making a decision?”

“Occasionally.”

“And do you get answers then?”

“I don’t know. I get a feeling sometimes that I should do something, or I shouldn’t.”

“What is the feeling like?”

“What do you mean?’

“Is it a physical feeling? Is it an emotion?”

“If I shouldn’t do something, I feel sick to my stomach about it. That’s how I felt when I married my ex-husband, and I definitely shouldn’t have done that. And if I should do something, I feel at peace.” She reached toward Stefan and squeezed his hand, a rare display of affection. “That’s how I felt about moving in with Stefan.”

Kurt’s insides bristled. He reached for a glass of mineral water and took a sip so he wouldn’t react. Feeling good about committing sin—it wasn’t supposed to be possible. Either she was so far out of touch with God’s direction that she was beyond saving, or … well, it was possible that the Holy Ghost had been telling her to _marry_ Stefan, and she’d misunderstood the prompting.

Kurt took a second sip. The tickle of the bubbles always helped him relax.

OK. It was probably the second. Heavenly Father didn’t put anyone on Earth who was beyond saving. And only members of the church had the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost. For those who weren’t members, the Holy Ghost’s presence was intermittent. Naturally, their lack of experience with the Holy Ghost would make them imperfect at interpreting his signs.

Kurt set down his drink. “Have you had it at other times? This feeling of peace?”

“When I was trying to decide what to study in school, and later when I took the job here in Ingolstadt. I get it in nature, too. I need to go hiking more often. That’s when I feel closest to God.”

“Me too!” Elder Anderson said excitedly. Kurt turned to look at him. Missionaries weren’t supposed to say that kind of thing. They were supposed to feel closest to God when they prayed.

But the expression on Elder Anderson’s face was so sincere, Kurt gave up all plans to chide him later. If Kurt was completely honest, he knew what both Doro and Elder Anderson were talking about. There was something about fresh air, sunshine, and the smell of freshly trodden soil that made Kurt feel abundantly loved. It was like sleeping under the tattered afghan his grandmother had made for him after his mom died. Earth was a gift, created by his Heavenly Parents as the perfect home for him, the perfect comfort.

“Those feelings are evidence,” Elder Anderson said. “They aren’t the kind of thing you can measure or write down in your lab notes, but they are evidence all the same. Proof that we have a Heavenly Father who loves us and sends his Holy Ghost to guide us when we ask for his help.”

Stefan, who had been silently mulling his scriptures most of this time, looked up. “My problem is that the only evidence I seem to get is about what _not_ to do. I left the Catholic church because of it, but I still don’t know where to go instead, or if I _should_ go anywhere. Where is the Holy Ghost when I need the answer to that?”

“Joseph Smith, the prophet who restored the church in the 1800s, had the same question about recognizing the Holy Ghost, the Lord gave him an answer that is recorded in our scriptures. What we learn is that God rarely gives us lightning-bolt revelations. Most of the time, we have to use our own reasoning first—to think a problem through and come up with a logical answer, and then pray about it.” Kurt opened his German scriptures to Doctrine and Covenants, section 9, and read, “‘But, behold, I say unto you, that you must study it out in your mind; then you must ask me’—the Lord—‘if it be right, and if it is right I will cause that your heart shall burn within you; therefore, you will feel that it is right. But if it is not right, you will have no such feelings, but you shall have a stupor of thought that will cause you to forget what is false.’”

Elder Anderson took this as his cue. “Have you done something nice for someone, and you just felt good about it afterward? It gave you a warm feeling in your heart?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s the Holy Ghost. That warmth in your heart. God speaks to us through those feelings to tell us that we’re on the right path.”

Neither Doro nor Stefan spoke. They seemed to be mulling over what Elder Anderson had just said, examining it for flaws. “Part of me wants to agree,” Doro said. “But the other part of me says that we’re social animals who have evolved to depend on each other for survival. Our bodies reward us with good feelings when we help each other, because it’s a way to preserve the species.”

Kurt had wondered the same thing while studying biology in high school, but ultimately the argument hadn’t held enough weight for him. Because those feelings happened not only when he was helping others, but also when he was on his own—just him and God.

“That’s possible,” Kurt said. “But the only way to receive an answer is to ask, and the only way to ask is to pray. No matter what Elder Anderson and I tell you, your testimony and your relationship with Heavenly Father is between you and him. Joseph Smith said this amazing thing about learning to recognize the Holy Ghost: ‘Having a knowledge of God, we begin to know how to approach Him, and how to ask so as to receive an answer. When we understand the character of God, and know how to come to Him, He begins to unfold the heavens to us, and to tell us all about it. When we are ready to come to Him, He is ready to come to us.’”

Elder Anderson took that as his cue to introduce the last bit of Scripture they’d agreed upon for the lesson. “If you open your Book of Mormon to the last page, the prophet Moroni talks about gaining spiritual evidence that something is true. Would you read chapter ten, verses three through five, Stefan?”

Stefan turned to the back of his Book of Mormon and found the passage. Kurt noticed it was already highlighted in yellow pencil with a star in the margin. If that wasn’t proof that the Holy Ghost was already speaking to Stefan, nothing was. “‘Behold,’” Stefan read, “‘I would like to exhort you, when you read this, according to God's wisdom, that you will learn how merciful the Lord was to the children of men, from the creation of Adam to the time when you receive this, and that you will think about it in your heart. And I would like to exhort you: When you receive this, ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, whether it is true; and if you ask with a sincere heart, with a genuine purpose, and have faith in Christ, he will proclaim by the power of the Holy Ghost that it is true. And by the power of the Holy Ghost you can know whether anything is true.’”

A happy shiver went down Kurt’s spine, as always happened when he read or heard those words. It was such a bold promise, even clearer than the one in the New Testament: _For everyone that asketh, receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh, it shall be opened._ “Doro and Stefan, you both want answers. I’ve known you for a while now, and I know you’re sincere in your search. I promise you, if you follow Moroni’s advice here, you will get the same results. I know because I’ve done the same thing.”

Kurt had been only six years old when he’d prayed to know the truth of the Book of Mormon, but he could remember the answer perfectly: a warmth that was clear and all-consuming, brighter even than what he felt right now.

He wanted Doro and Stefan to feel that same warmth. “You’re children of a Heavenly Father, Doro and Stefan, and he loves you very much. Anything you want to talk with him about, you can. And you can receive an answer from him through the Holy Ghost. Are you willing to take guidance from scripture and pray to find out if the Book of Mormon and what we have taught you is true?”

“Yes, of course. Praying never hurt anyone.” Doro sounded almost insulted, as if Kurt was asking something so simple it should go without saying. But people constantly wandered through life without ever asking themselves the simplest of questions that would lead them to the truth. That’s why God called missionaries—to say those questions out loud.

“I pray all the time,” Stefan said. “I listen, too. But most of the time, God is silent.”

The room fell silent, too, as Kurt mulled over how to respond.

“It does feel that way sometimes, doesn’t it?” Elder Anderson nodded. He had that expression on his face again—sincere, almost painfully so, brown eyes gleaming—like he felt everything that those around him felt, like he loved them as much as Christ did. Kurt’s heart clenched inside him, so tight it almost broke. He’d known Elder Anderson for only a few hours, and already he could see that he was going to learn more from his junior companion than he was going to teach. “We don’t all get that warm feeling in answer to each prayer. Sometimes, we feel no discernable response at all. Sometimes, that means that we just need to continue studying a question out in our mind and get a clearer idea of what we want to ask. Sometimes, it means that we need to study our scriptures a little more or attend church to become more in tune to the way God speaks. And sometimes, if we’ve done all we can, it means that God wants us to take a leap of faith—to move in his direction even if we don’t feel his presence. The scriptures tell us that ‘to some it is given by the Holy Ghost to know that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that he was crucified for the sins of the world. To others it is given to believe on their words, that they also might have eternal life … .’ To be able to take that leap of faith is no less a gift than to feel the presence of the Holy Ghost.”

This was not the kind of thing that missionaries usually said in lessons with investigators. Missionaries were trained to be bold—to promise that if investigators did things the way Heavenly Father wanted them to, certain results would follow. If they quit drinking coffee or smoking cigarettes, Heavenly Father would give them more energy and happiness than they’d had before. If they prayed the right way, they would get a clear answer to join the church. If they covered their shoulders and didn’t sunbathe topless, they would feel better about themselves.

Usually, those things were true. But they weren’t true one hundred percent of the time. Life was full of confounding factors. There were people who quit cigarettes and spent the next six months as insufferable, short-tempered grouches that no one in priesthood quorum wanted to sit next to. There was that woman in Stuttgart who’d quit coffee and tea, only for her doctor to prescribe her caffeine pills to treat her weekly migraines. And there was Kurt, who’d been born in the covenant and raised in the faith, who was doing all the right things, and was still constitutionally incapable of fulfilling his duties under the plan of happiness: to fall in love with a choice daughter of Zion, to get sealed to her in the temple, to raise a family with her and, finally, to be reunited with them in the next life, his heart never wanting anything else.

God’s truth was more complex than even the church knew.

But Elder Anderson knew it, and was bold enough to speak it.

Kurt sat stunned, speechless, frozen. But Stefan didn’t. He became suddenly animated, leaning forward and setting his books on the coffee table next to the untouched cookies. His eyes were tired looking, maybe even on the verge of tears, but there was a warmth in them that Kurt had never seen before. “One thing I loved about the Catholic church was that it didn’t matter how strongly you believed. What mattered is that you _wanted_ to believe. Here, I thought you Mormons were like all Protestants—that each of us had to have some sort of personal revelation of God, that we had to feel closer to Jesus than to our best friends. I didn’t think Mormons were allowed to have the kind of faith that is as much hope as it is conviction.”

Elder Anderson nodded. “For me, that’s what faith is all about. Here, can I write down something for you to read in your Book of Mormon? I think both you and Doro will find it helpful.”

“Of course.” Stefan handed Elder Anderson a little notepad and pen. Kurt didn’t have to look over Elder Anderson’s shoulder to guess that he was writing _Alma 32: 17-43,_ but he looked, anyway. Elder Anderson had a neat, compact cursive that was easy to read, and somewhere along the line he’d learned to shape his numerals the German way, with a little crossbar on the ‘seven’ and a downward-sloping visor to cap off the ‘one.’

Elder Anderson picked up Stefan’s Book of Mormon from the coffee table and flipped it open to the right page before sticking the piece of notepaper in as a bookmark. “I promise that if you read this, pray sincerely and listen for an answer, the Holy Spirit will testify to you that the Book of Mormon is true and that Joseph Smith restored Christ’s church here on earth. Sometimes the promptings of the Holy Spirit don’t come right away, or they may seem quieter or gentler than you expect. Sometimes they come through the witness of others. But if you are persistent, he will reveal these things to you just as he has to Elder Hummel and me, and to so many other members of the church.”

“Thank you, Elder Anderson,” Stefan said. “Your faith gives me hope.”


	5. Word of Wisdom

Kurt’s hands shook as he unlocked his bicycle from the rack outside Doro and Stefan’s apartment building. His whole body had been buzzing since before their closing prayer, but he’d had to hold all that ecstatic energy in while he made small talk about German and American Easter traditions and politely nibbled on the cookies Doro had set out for them.

Having the Holy Ghost was supposed to feel good, but sometimes it fell on the wrong side of too much, like his body was an overinflated balloon about to pop into a dozen ragged pieces.

“I can’t believe that just happened.” Kurt whispered the words, as if they were a magic spell that, if overheard, would be rendered obsolete. It helped a little, the small puffs of air relieving some of the pressure building up inside him. Not as much as crying would, but obviously he couldn’t cry now—not in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a companion he hardly knew.

“I’m sorry?” Elder Anderson looked up from his own lock. Their bikes were next to each other in the rack. Kurt realized that their faces were in kissing distance of each other. ( _Kissing distance?_ What kind of a thought was _kissing distance?_ Kurt had only been in _kissing distance_ of anyone a couple times in his life, both with girls, and it had been weird each time. That should have scared Kurt off thoughts about _kissing distance_ forever.)

(Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the Holy Spirit guide.)

Kurt stood up, his lock in his hand. “I …” He lowered his voice, mouthing the words more than speaking them. “At Doro and Stefan’s.”

Elder Anderson furrowed his eyebrows. “ _What_ just happened?”

“The— The Holy Ghost. You felt it, didn’t you?”

“Oh. That.” Elder Anderson bounced to his feet and pulled his bike out of the rack. His voice seemed to bounce, too: cheerful, light. “I felt … something.”

They stared at each other. Or maybe Kurt was staring at Elder Anderson, while Elder Anderson was simply waiting for direction. _Earth to Kurt. Come in, Kurt._ He needed to tell Elder Anderson where they were going next. “The next place we’re going to is only a couple kilometers away. We can walk our bikes for a little. Follow me.”

“Okay,” Elder Anderson said amiably. Kurt was beginning to suspect that he said everything amiably. In most people, that would have annoyed Kurt. It didn’t here.

That, in itself, was a little annoying.

“What did you feel?” Now that Kurt was moving and talking, his hands had gotten less frenetic. But he still felt that crazy energy whirring through him. He gripped his handlebars and took a deep breath of April air.

Elder Anderson looked over at Kurt. The buildings in this part of town weren’t that tall—two or three stories with the occasional outlier—so they didn’t block the sun this early in the afternoon. It shone on Elder Anderson’s face, making him squint a little as he answered. “They’re both very spiritual people. And they want the answers.”

“That’s all?” Kurt didn’t mean to sound impatient or disappointed, but he probably sounded both. It was just that he was so _happy_ , and when that happened he could come across as agitated because he had more feelings than he knew what to do with.

Elder Anderson’s mouth shrank into a little pout, and his eyebrows frowned right along with it. Kurt wondered if this was what he looked like when he was taken aback and trying not to show it. Kurt really _did_ need to be more aware of his tone. “I don’t know. They’re new to me. There was so much to take in. But I thought I felt, when Stefan was talking about the difference between faith and conviction—”

“No, Elder. It was _you_. When _you_ started talking about it. When you started explaining the different way the Holy Ghost manifests— He lit up, Elder Anderson! He was just … glowing.” Kurt’s stride turned into a skip. It wasn’t easy to skip with a bicycle in tow, but with the way Kurt was feeling at the moment, he simply had to.

Elder Anderson pursed his lips. He looked amused. Also pleased. And maybe just a little shy, with the way he lowered his eyes to Kurt’s handlebars. “I did see that.” There it was again. That musical quality that sometimes entered Elder Anderson’s voice. That thing that made words sound like laughter, like they were bubbling out of him, water from a hidden spring. “I didn’t know it was unusual for him, though.”

“It was. They’ve always been polite. They’re obviously interested in religion. But …” If he were completely honest, Kurt had never held out much hope for either Stefan or Doro. They were nice people, but so were most Germans. And most nice Germans, no matter how interested in spiritual matters they might be, didn’t see a need to upend their lives for the gospel. They were comfortable people, living in a society where everyone had their basic needs met, where most people tried to treat each other fairly, where crime—while not unheard of—was nowhere near as rampant as back home. Germans were happy. Satisfied.

People who are satisfied rarely go searching for more.

So it was difficult to get converts in Germany. In a typical year, there was only one baptism for every two missionaries in the country. And a large number of those weren’t actually German. They were refugees and immigrants, people for whom lasting happiness had always been out of reach.

Scattered images from previous meetings with Doro and Stefan kaleidoscoped in Kurt’s brain, trying to work into some sort of coherent whole. “He opened up, Elder Anderson. I’ve never seen that happen with him before. He’s always been interested, but I never really got through to him. This time it touched his heart. Because you were here, and you knew what to say to him.”

“Only because I’ve been in his shoes.”

“What do you mean?”

Elder Anderson’s gaze shifted to his own handlebars, then the sidewalk in front of them. “There’s a reason I have that passage from Doctrine and Covenants about spiritual gifts memorized. I’m not someone who has a strong awareness of the Holy Ghost, Elder Hummel. The strongest feeling I get of him is that one I told Doro and Stefan about—that warmth I feel when I help another person. For a long time, I wasn’t even sure I was worthy to serve a mission. Not because I’d done anything particularly bad, but because I’d never experienced the things that other people talk about at fast and testimony meeting. I’ve never had a vision or heard God speak to me in words or—”

“Few people have, Elder Anderson.”

“I know. But I prayed about a million times to know the Book of Mormon was true the year we studied it in seminary, and I never got that feeling of profound peace that people talk about. I asked my dad about it, and my bishop, and my priesthood quorum advisors, and they all said to keep praying. So I did. I was looking so hard for an answer that I didn’t realize I already had it.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, therefore I was taught somewhat in all the learning of my father …’”

“—is the first line of the Book of Mormon.”

Elder Anderson smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled like those of an old woman who’d loved and laughed as much as God wanted her to. “Yes. But for me, it was an answer.”

“I’m not following.”

“Nephi had good parents who taught him the gospel. So did I. I was born in the covenant. My parents brought me to church every Sunday, no matter what. We had morning and evening prayers together. They taught me the difference between right and wrong. They gave me a happy home. And one day I realized _that_ was my witness. I’d been waiting for some dramatic sign from the Holy Ghost. But I didn’t need one, because God had filled my life with good, trustworthy people who had a personal witness of the Book of Mormon, and they were passing that witness on to me through their actions. That was all I needed to know that the church was true.”

Kurt mulled this over. It was so different from Kurt’s experience. To him, the spiritual realm often felt more immediate than the world around him. His mother had died more than a decade ago, but still sometimes when he sang his old Primary songs, he could hear her singing right along with him. “So … you’ve never felt the Holy Ghost?”

Elder Anderson shook his head. “Doch!” he said in German, even though they’d been speaking mostly in English up to this point—probably because _doch_ was the perfect word for a situation like this. It meant something like _to the contrary,_ but without the connotation of being a New England aristocrat with a stiff upper lip. Though honestly, with his Cary Grant hairstyle, Elder Anderson might have been able to get away with _to the contrary._ “I’ve felt it. It just tends to be … quiet. I’ve never experienced the Holy Ghost as something earth-shattering.” Elder Anderson looked up and squinted at Kurt’s face, his eyes half-closed like that of a cat slumbering in the sun, so warm and content it didn’t need to bother closing them all the way. “It can be for you, though, can’t it?”

Kurt looked down at his own hands—the ones that had been shaking earlier from the presence of the Holy Ghost. “What makes you say that?”

Elder Anderson shrugged. His mouth echoed the movement, turning up at one corner. “I don’t know. Just …” He squinted at Kurt again. Light glinted off his eyelashes. “Stefan wasn’t the only one glowing.”

Kurt suddenly felt too warm. He shoved one hand into the side pocket of his suit jacket—an awkward gesture, but one that made him feel somehow safer. Why did he need to feel safe, though? There was no danger here. They were talking about good, godly things. Those shouldn’t make him want to run and hide. “We should probably get on our bikes. We don’t want to be late to our next appointment.”

*

Their next appointment was with the Wörles, an inactive member family that had joined the church a few years before. Kurt had met them the two times they’d attended services since he’d been in Ingolstadt, and they seemed like nice folks. But like a lot of Germans, they didn’t quite get the importance of going to church every Sunday or fulfilling a calling. They didn’t understand that the church couldn’t run without its members. They were used to the state-supported Catholic and Lutheran churches, overseen by paid priests who collected salaries from state taxes, and which ran like self-perpetuating clocks whether or not anyone actually attended.

But that’s not how God’s true church worked. Die Kirche Jesu Christi der Heiligen der Letzten Tage was a church of believers, with no paid clergy to keep things going if the believers stopped showing up. The president of their tiny Ingolstadt worked full-time at the Audi plant, sacrificing his evenings and weekends to shepherd their little flock—administering the church welfare program, hearing members’ confessions and leading them through the process of repentance, overseeing committee meetings, and keeping membership and tithing records. Whether it was teaching Sunday school, cleaning the bathrooms, bringing the sacrament to housebound members, reconciling the budget, or playing the piano during hymns, all of it was done by members without pay. The missionaries didn’t get paid, either; the privilege of serving cost them $400 a month, which covered housing and food, but not clothing or health insurance. Kurt had saved up some of that by working in his dad’s garage in high school and selling some of his altered fashions on Ebay. The rest of the money came from selling off the refurbished Navigator his father had given him for his sixteenth birthday. It was a sacrifice Kurt was more than willing to make. The worth of a car paled in comparison to two years of complete devotion to the Lord’s work.

Though some moments of working for the Lord were better than others. Kurt and Elder Andersen’s appointment with the Wörles didn’t start out well. The wife sat them down in the living room and offered them cookies and tea. Elder Anderson, upon taking a sip of the drink, grimaced for one-tenth of a nanosecond before saying, with a politeness that Kurt suspected was inborn and not just an effect of speaking in German’s formal register, “Please, do pardon me, but I have never tasted something like this before. Is this … black tea?”

Kurt glared down at his own cup and set it back on the tray with the same degree of disdain as if someone had told him it contained mouse droppings. He’d thought there was something off about the smell, but the color was so similar to that of raspberry leaf tea that he’d assumed it was.

“Of course, but it’s decaf.”

Kurt and Elder Anderson looked at her, both at a loss for words.

“What? The rule against coffee and tea—surely it means to avoid them because of the caffeine, yes?”

The two missionaries shook their heads in sync.

“You mean, we must avoid decaf as well?”

Kurt sighed. He didn’t mean to. It just came out of him, like he was an old man clambering up the side of a mountain with the weight of the world on his back and simply _had_ to stop and breathe. This was far from the first misunderstanding he’d had with converts over the church’s dietary rules. “The Word of Wisdom teaches us that coffee and tea are harmful to our well-being, whether they have caffeine or not. Herbal teas are, however, for our benefit.”

The mother started off nodding politely, but then her eyes bugged out of her head and when Kurt finished his short speech she made that perennial German exclamation, so much more satisfying than English’s staid _oh_ : “Ach!” She swooped in on Elder Anderson, freeing his tea cup from his hands with the urgency of someone intercepting a grenade, and set it on the tray. “Du meine güte! I completely misunderstood. I swear, we _have_ been drinking less coffee since we were baptized, we’re very good about that, and we only drink non-alcoholic beer—well, I speak for myself if not my husband—but … One minute. I’ll find something else.”

She picked up the tray and marched out of the room.

Kurt and Elder Anderson looked at each other. “Poor woman,” Elder Anderson mouthed in English.

Kurt wouldn’t risk speaking English behind a German’s back, even silently. The entire country was far too educated for it to be safe. Anyway, if she had come to church regularly, she would know the rules. Given the number of converts in the branch, Relief Society meetings probably covered the Word of Wisdom at least once a year.

A few minutes later Frau Wörle was back with apple juice. Kurt wasn’t a big fan of juice with cookies—afterwards, his teeth always felt caked in sugar—but he had been a missionary long enough not to look a gift horse in the mouth. They made small talk for a few minutes (“We haven’t seen you at church lately, Sister Wörle.” “Ah, but we were just there last month!” “And I was so happy to see you. A church is made of its people, Sister Wörle, and we need you to make it whole. Besides, I remember you saying how much you like the Sermon on the Mount. We’ve been doing a whole series on it in sacrament meeting. Sister Hiller gave the most wonderful talk last Sunday on being pure in heart.” “Oh? Is that so? I really should go, if only Sunday wasn’t the only day we can get together with my sister’s family for breakfast …”) while they waited for her husband and kids to join them, and they threw out their plans to teach about going to the temple to be sealed as an eternal family and instead gave an impromptu lesson on the Word of Wisdom, since people who violated it couldn’t go to the temple, anyway.

Kurt assumed they’d have to give the lesson off the top of their heads, but Elder Anderson surprised him by reaching into his satchel and producing the church’s official German pamphlet on the topic, _Das Wort der Weisheit_. Kurt almost swooned. Elder Anderson was his kind of missionary—prepared for every possibility.

“Good job, Elder Anderson,” Kurt said later as they walked out to their bikes, giving his junior companion a congratulatory slap on the back. It wasn’t a gesture that came naturally to him, but it was as common as short sideburns among the missionaries. If he was going to comply with the grooming code, he might as well comply with this, too, especially given that their second lesson of the afternoon had turned out much better than expected. Frau Wörle had tossed all their coffee and tea into the compost, Herr Wörle had promised to give the Paulaner in their fridge to the neighbors (Kurt only half-believed him, but at least Herr Wörle looked like he _wanted_ to mean it), and though they couldn’t go to church this week (Frau Wörle had already picked out a new pancake recipe for this week’s breakfast with her sister), the whole family had promised to be at sacrament meeting on Easter.

“Thanks.” Elder Anderson ducked his head, which appeared to be his go-to way of responding to compliments. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“But it wouldn’t have gone as well without the pamphlet. It’s smart of you to carry extra literature around. I’m not as good at backup plans as I should be. I get so stuck on planning things to an exact science. But people _aren’t_ an exact science.”

“No. They’re not. But …” They were at their bikes. Elder Anderson didn’t lean over to unlock his from the fence. He kept looking at Kurt, studying his face. One second, then two seconds, then three. Kurt thought about looking away, but he didn’t want to. There was something so gentle in Elder Anderson’s expression, so appreciative. Kurt couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him this way. He felt … seen. “I think that’s okay, Elder Hummel. We complement each other. I think that’s why the mission president put us together. Like, with Frau Wörle just now, I didn’t have had the guts to proclaim the Word of Wisdom to her like you did. I was trying to figure out a roundabout way to say it, all worried that I would embarrass her, and you just told her what the rule was, without apologizing for it. And Germans respect that kind of straight talk.”

Kurt had to look away for a second. Everything was too much again, like when he’d been overflowing with the Holy Ghost. “They certainly do.”

Elder Anderson gave Kurt’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. The sun was lower now, mostly hidden behind the roof of the house across the street. Only a few of its rays made it over the eaves. They caught in Elder Anderson’s hair, turning the strands from black to mahogany. “We’re the perfect pair, Elder Hummel. I’m already learning so much from you.”


	6. The Brightness of the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a good time to repeat the bit about characters having specific worldviews and not taking any representation that they make about German culture, Arabic-speaking cultures, Native American history, ancient Israel, Islam, Catholicism, Protestantism, etc., at face value. They probably got something wrong.

Blaine thought he might be a little in love with Ingolstadt. Leipzig may have been bigger, but people here still cared about God.

Also, in Leipzig he’d never eaten kufta.

Their final appointment of the day was at the tiny one-bedroom apartment of a young, married Arab couple who were both studying engineering at the Technische Hochschule. Seriously, the apartment was even smaller than his new home under the sloped roof of a shoe shop in downtown Ingolstadt, and missionary apartments were notoriously small. But it didn’t matter. The scents that filled the kitchen/dining room/living room made it feel somehow bigger—mint and cumin and thyme, fruity olive oil and roasted eggplant. The four of them were crowded almost elbow-to-elbow around a little card table, but the world seemed to be unfolding around him. Every bite of his pita held something new: the lamb-and-allspice sweetness of kufta, the cool cucumbery freshness of yogurt sauce, the fatty satisfaction of eggplant, the crunch of potato chips and greens. And then there were the mezze: grape leaves stuffed with rice and herbs, artichoke salad, hummus, and a dozen different kinds of olives.

This was not what he’d expected in Ingolstadt. Munich, maybe, or Frankfurt. But here? He’d looked up demographics for every city in the church’s Germany Central-South Mission before leaving home, and Ingolstadt was listed as having zero-point-zero percent foreigners among its population of one hundred twenty-eight thousand. But maybe the census only included permanent residents.

Blaine’s pocket notebook was on the table next to him. It was where he wrote down new German words he needed to learn and grammar points he wasn’t sure about. As soon as he was done with dinner, he would ask Nuriyah to write down the names of the food she had prepared so he could learn how to say them in Arabic. This was his first time being invited to dinner by Arab investigators, but when he had served in Frankfurt, he had met a shopkeeper who taught him two of the most important words in the Arabic language (or any language, really): _shukran_ and _afwan_ , or _thank you_ and _you’re welcome._

“This is the best hummus I’ve ever eaten,” Blaine said after demolishing his second pita, speaking in English because that was part of the deal. The couple attended the English tutoring sessions the church offered at the branch office on Wednesday nights, and Elder Hummel had explained that lot of students from that class were willing to take a first lesson if it was in English. “But don’t tell my mother I said that.”

Nuriyah, who sat next to him, looked up at Blaine with interest. “Your mother is an Arab?”

Her question didn’t surprise Blaine. He’d gotten that before in games of Guess-the-Ethnicity. “No. She’s from the Philippines.”

“They eat hummus in the Philippines?”

“No. Or, she didn’t grow up eating it. But she likes to cook. And everyone in America eats hummus these days.”

Samir, the husband, leaned across the table to pour Blaine a refill of his mint tea. “I would not have guessed. You do not look Asian.”

Blaine refused to let the comment get under his skin. After all, he’d heard it a bazillion times from people who should know better than to say things like that. And he figured Arabs, like Germans, _didn’t_ know better than to say things like that. “Well, my dad’s white.” He pointed to his name tag. “Anderson. It’s Scandinavian. Swedish.” Blaine bit his tongue to keep himself from explaining that in Swedish it usually had two S’s, not one, but somewhere along the line their family name got misspelled on a birth certificate and no one had ever bothered to correct it. No one needed to know that much detail about him. He was a missionary.

Samir nodded. “Interesting. You do not look Swedish either.”

Blaine nodded, grinning around the stuffed grape leaf he had just shoe-horned into his mouth. The fact that he didn’t look Swedish didn’t bother him as much as not looking Filipino. His father was six-feet-two, with hair so blonde it had looked almost white even before he’d started to age. Blaine was only five-feet-seven, and his hair was definitely not white.

Samir gave him an assessing look. “Truthfully, if I see you in Lebanon, I would think you are Lebanese. But—” He slapped the table and grinned as if he’d made the funniest joke in the world. “—this does you no good here. Better if people think you are Italian.”

Nuriyah began laughing too, so Blaine joined in. Next to him, Elder Hummel looked at them with a perplexed expression. He was probably trying to decide whether he should laugh with them, or not laugh because it might come across as laughing _at_ them.

Samir nudged Elder Hummel with a finger to his elbow. “You meet Elder Anderson for first time today, yes?”

Elder Hummel set down his pita and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “Yes.”

“And what you thought when you saw him? How does he look to you?”

“Um.” The napkin was still in Elder Hummel’s hands. He fidgeted with it, tearing small slits in one corner. “I’m not sure … I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Arab? Italian?”

“Oh!” Elder Hummel dropped the napkin back into his lap, smoothing it over his thighs. “I— I don’t know. We’re American. Most of us aren’t one thing or another. I mean, I have a German name, but my ancestors aren’t just German. I have English, Acadian—or French—, Irish, Norwegian, even Cherokee. Native American. Do you know that word?”

Nuriyah nodded. “We know Native American. Like Palestinian. The people who are there first.”

“Um, maybe? I don’t know the nuances of the situation in the Middle East.” Elder Hummel said diplomatically. Missionaries weren’t supposed to discuss politics. Blaine was impressed he could remember the word _nuances_ after nearly two years of speaking German most of the time. “But I know that, historically, some of our Native Americans are descended from the Semitic peoples.”

“You mean, Arabs and Jews?” Samir said. “I have not heard this.”

Elder Hummel’s posture, already proud—no, proud wasn’t the right word, for _a proud heart stirreth up strife_ , and Elder Hummel had nothing of a contentious spirit about him, but one that strong and sure and _selbstbewusst_ —self-knowing, confident. His shoulders grew incrementally wider, his chest just a smidge broader, his chin high. “Yes. That’s why Elder Anderson and I are here in Germany, actually. In the 1800s, a man named Joseph Smith discovered a collection of ancient scriptures that told the story of a family of Hebrews who traveled across the Atlantic Ocean and settled almost three thousand years ago in what are now the Americas. This family is among the ancestors of some of the Native American tribes.”

“Echt?” said Nuriyah, forgetting her English for a moment and slipping into German. _Really?_ “I did not think the Jews did much sailing then. And the Arabs had only the dhows. These do not sail far.”

“The Lord told the prophet Nephi how to build a ship, like he told Noah how to build the Ark. His descendants practiced the Abrahamic faith on our continent long before Europeans arrived. Unfortunately, war led to their civilizations dying out. The scriptures were lost for fifteen-hundred years before Joseph Smith found them.”

Blaine took note of Elder Hummel’s use of the term “Abrahamic faith.” That was smart. On their way over, Elder Hummel explained to Blaine that the couple were Muslims, and the Muslims claimed to belong to an Abrahamic faith, didn’t they? A missionary wouldn’t usually describe the gospel that way, but it was a good technique here—showing that they already had a lot in common, even though it might not seem so at first.

Samir studied Elder Hummel’s name tag, then Blaine’s. “‘Kirche Jesu Christi der Heiligen der Letzten Tage,’” he read. “But you are Christians?”

Blaine spoke up. He didn’t want to make Elder Hummel do all the heavy lifting. “Yes. Do you know much about Christianity?”

“Of course. We have many Christians back home. And here in Germany also.” Samir winked and popped an olive into his mouth. “And Islam teaches about Jesus, too, peace be upon him—that he is a prophet and rose into heaven to be with God.”

“Well, we believe that Jesus Christ came to the American continent to teach the Native Americans.”

“When?”

“Two-thousand years ago.”

“How did he get there? To go by ship would take a long time.”

“He came down from heaven.”

Samir looked at Blaine, then at Elder Hummel, then back at Blaine again, as if trying to determine if Blaine was pulling his leg. When neither of them blinked, he slapped the table with one hand. “Yes! This is good. I like this answer.”

 _Why_ this answer delighted him so much, Blaine wasn’t sure, but it was inevitable that something would get lost in all the cultural and language differences, and asking just seemed awkward—like it would imply that there were more reasons to dislike the answer than to like it.

“Samir,” said Elder Hummel, “Islam teaches that God has sent prophets to earth to teach his children. Is that correct?”

“Of course. Many are the same as yours, if you are Christian: Adam, Noah, Abraham, Moses, David, Jesus, peace be upon them.”

“We believe that God continues to call prophets today. What do you think of that?”

“Islam teaches that Muhammad was the final prophet, peace be upon him. But I am not religious.”

“But you seem to have respect for the prophets.”

“It is an old habit. They are good men. It is God I am not so sure about.”

“Oh?”

Samir shrugged. “You know the Middle East. All these children, they are supposed to worship the same God. But they are not so kind to each other.”

“So God is too silent?”

“Yes. You could say that.”

“And what about you, Nuriyah?”

“I believe in God. It is the religion that is perhaps flawed.”

“In Islam, Muhammad is the final prophet. Is that right?”

Nuriyah and Samir both nodded. “And this belief, it … What is the word?” Nuriyah waved her fingers in the air as if trying to grasp something ephemeral.

“You can say it in German, if that’s easier,” Blaine offered.

She muttered something under her breath—whether in German or Arabic or one of the other million languages she no doubt spoke, Blaine couldn’t tell—her eyes fixed toward the ceiling as if she might find the word there. “Freeze!” she shouted suddenly.

Blaine did.

“No, I mean—” She made a small laugh that sounded like it was going backwards up her nose. “—The word. It is ‘freeze.’ This belief in a final prophet, it freezes people, society. We become stuck.”

Blaine’s heart almost skipped a beat. It was the perfect segue. He couldn’t have come up with anything better himself. “Well, we believe that God never stopped sending prophets, because he still wants to speak to us today. Wouldn’t that be great, to be able to hear from God now with the world in the condition it is now?”

Nuriyah nodded. Samir said, “I suppose it depends which god. There are lots of gods the world is better off without, I think.”

“I mean the God who created us,” Blaine said. “Our Heavenly Father who loves all people as his children.”

“All people?” Samir said.

“Yes. All people.”

“Well, yes. It would be good to hear from a god like that.”

“You can, through scriptures and the prophets who speak to us today.”

“If there are prophets, why have we never heard of them?” Samir said.

 _Because we don’t send missionaries to Lebanon_ , Blaine thought, but that was a pretty weak answer. Fortunately, Elder Hummel came to the rescue. “You’re about to.”

“Ha!” Samir slapped the table again, delighted. “This is another good answer.”

*

They cleared off the table and Nuriyah put the leftovers in the fridge while Samir produced a box of sesame candies from the cupboard and Kurt retrieved copies of a pamphlet called _Die Wiederherstellung des Evangeliums Jesu Christi_ and its English equivalent— _The Restoration of the Gospel of Jesus Christ_ —from his satchel. There was nowhere to sit in the kitchen/living room/dining room but the little card table, so that’s where they settled down again for dessert with more hot glasses of mint tea. Kurt signaled for Elder Anderson to begin the lesson.

“Our first prophet in recent times was named Joseph Smith. He lived in America about two hundred years ago, soon after our country was founded, in a place called New York.”

“We know New York.”

Elder Anderson flushed. “Of course. I guess it’s pretty famous.”

They all laughed.

“Anyway, when Joseph Smith was a boy, around the age of fourteen, a lot of preachers—religious teachers—came through his town. Each had their own church, and they taught different things about God. Joseph Smith wanted to be close to God and live in a way that would please him. But he didn’t know which church to join.”

Kurt handed an open pamphlet to Nuriyah and asked, “Would you read the end of this paragraph here? It is from our Bible, in a book called James.”

Nuriyah nodded. “‘If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.’”

“The English in that verse is a little old-fashioned. Could you tell us in your own words what it means?”

Nuriyah answered, “If you don’t know something, ask God, and God will answer you.”

“Exactly. Do you have questions that you would like to ask God?”

Samir chuckled. “Oh, yes. With our lives the way they have been, we have a million questions, I am certain.”

Nuriyah rolled her eyes. “We wouldn’t know where to start.”

Elder Anderson smiled. Kurt wondered if Elder Anderson was physically capable of not smiling when others were. He was probably as susceptible to happiness as other people were susceptible to the flu and colds. It was kind of cute.

“Well,” Elder Anderson continued, “when Joseph Smith read that verse, he realized that he couldn’t decide on his own which church to join. He needed to ask God in faith. The part of New York where he lived had a lot of trees, and he went into a grove—into a forest—to pray by himself. He kneeled down and began to offer the desires of his heart up to God. What happened next was pretty incredible.” He paused to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. “God appeared to him.”

Kurt looked away from Elder Anderson and studied Samir and Nuriyah for their reactions. Neither seemed to notice him looking at them. Their attention was on Elder Anderson, rapt—though whether out of politeness or because they were genuinely intrigued by the story, Kurt couldn’t tell. Heck, maybe they were just entranced by his face. Who wouldn’t be?

“I am going to quote Joseph Smith’s own words about this experience because they explain it best: ‘I saw a pillar of light exactly over my head, above the brightness of the sun, which descended gradually until it fell upon me. … When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages,’—two people—‘whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!’” Elder Anderson’s voice quavered on the final words. His eyes glistened with emotion. Kurt’s did, too. The lamp in the corner grew a halo, and even the faces of their investigators went slightly blurry through Kurt’s nascent tears. This part of the story never failed to touch Kurt, no matter how many times he or his companion told it. The earnestness with which Elder Anderson spoke only made the story strike deeper.

Kurt was no stranger to spiritual experiences. At times during his prayers, he’d sensed the Holy Ghost so viscerally that it seemed someone was holding him—a hand on the small of his back, an arm around his shoulders, a cheek leaning against his forehead. Sometimes, at the oddest moments and in places where it should be impossible, he got a whiff of his mother’s perfume.

But Kurt could only imagine what it would be like to see Heavenly Father or Jesus Christ. It would be more intense than staring at the sun. The experience had shaken Joseph Smith so much that he collapsed after the two members of the Godhead left him alone in the grove.

Elder Anderson pressed on. “The people Joseph Smith saw that day were Heavenly Father and his son Jesus Christ. Joseph Smith asked them which church he should join. Heavenly Father answered that Joseph Smith should not join any of the churches, because none of them taught the full truth. As God had done with Adam, Noah, Abraham, and other prophets, he called Joseph Smith to be a prophet. Through him, the complete truth was restored.”

The room fell silent. Kurt loved this point in the lessons. It separated the wheat from the chaff. He always felt like he was on the edge of a precipice with his investigators, and the next words out of their mouths would determine whether they would fall or fly. Kurt made a silent prayer that this couple would fly, even if they could never be baptized in this life. At least they would know the truth and be prepared to accept it in the next life. “What do you think, Samir and Nuriyah?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I understand the story,” Nuriyah said.

“Okay. What’s the problem?”

“You said two people appeared to Joseph Smith: Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. Is Heavenly Father the same as God?”

“Yes. Both Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are members of the Godhead. Heavenly Father is the ultimate creator and ruler of all things. He is perfect, has all power, and knows all things.”

“So he is the same as Allah?”

“If you mean, ‘Is he God?’—yes, he is God.”

Samir, who had been watching this back and forth with interest, jumped in. “God looks like a person?”

“Yes. The Bible says, ‘God created man in his own image.’ That means that God has a body of flesh and bone like you and me.”

“You mean, I can shake his hand?” Samir reached across the table to shake Elder Anderson’s hand, as if to illustrate. “And he would be made of the same parts as me? With a heart and blood cells and mitochondria?”

How did Samir know the word _mitochondria_? Kurt barely remembered what mitochondria were from high school biology—something found in every human cell, though he couldn’t remember what they _did—_ and he wasn’t sure about the heart, because Heavenly Father’s body didn’t have blood. Blood was mortal. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were quickened by the spirit, as everyone would be after the Resurrection. But that was probably more detail than they needed to go into now, especially since Samir and Nuriyah had little to no chance of progressing to baptism on this side of the veil. “More or less,” Kurt answered.

“Perhaps you mean Jesus?” Nuriyah said. “I know that Christians view Jesus as a god. Is this what you are referring to? Jesus’ body?”

“No. Jesus has a body. But so does Heavenly Father.”

The two investigators stared at Kurt like he was growing antlers. And then Samir began to laugh, though to his credit, he did seem to be trying to stifle it. Unfortunately, that just made the laughter come out his nose in uncomfortable-sounding huffs. “I am sorry. It is just so …” Samir took a deep breath. Kurt swore he saw Samir literally bite his own tongue to keep whatever he’d been about to say to himself.

Nuriyah tried to iron over the discomfort in the room. “We do not mean to be rude. But even though we do not practice Islam, it is … how we see the world. And in Islam, we do not know what God looks like. There is a story in the Quran about Moses. You share this prophet, yes?”

Kurt and Elder Anderson nodded.

“Well, Moses asked to see God. God answered, ‘Look at that mountain. If it stays where it is, you will see me.’ Then God smashed the mountain flat. This means, of course, that Moses did not see God. And if a great prophet like Moses cannot see God, no one can.”

“But the thing is—” Elder Anderson began; Kurt stayed him with a light touch to his forearm. It was important to never argue with an investigator. Even when well-intended, it chased away the Spirit and led to misunderstandings over doctrine. _Satan doth stir up the hearts of the people to contention concerning the points of my doctrine; and in these things they do err, for they do wrest the scriptures and do not understand them._

The missionary manual advised that missionaries could avoid contention by truly listening to everything investigators told them, and then inviting the Spirit to guide their responses. It wasn’t a skill that had come easily to Kurt. In high school, Kurt had grown so used to being stonewalled and ignored that he had learned to use his words like a battering ram, trying to knock any resistance down. It was the only way he’d been able to survive the bullying: Watch people. Guess what they’re going to say before they say it, what they’re going to do before they do it. Always be prepared with a sharp word or a quick retort—something to deflate opposition, to defeat.

Sure, those skills sometimes came in handy, when Kurt and his companions were cornered by dicey investigators who were more interested in arguing than learning, who really had no interest in learning about the gospel but just wanted to tear Kurt’s faith down. It was important to not really listen then, not to think about the words too closely, because those were the words of the Adversary, Satan, stirring up contention for contention’s sake. It was important to end the conversation as quickly as possible and make a quick escape.

Kurt was good at those.

But most investigators weren’t like that. They really did want to learn about the church, even if they saw meeting the missionaries more as a means of practicing their English or learning about a different culture than embarking on a new path in life. Kurt found that if he asked a few thoughtful questions, guided by the Spirit, he could turn the conversation to more personal matters, to the values and beliefs that were close to each investigator’s heart. And if he listened to those answers—well, that was more guidance from the Spirit. Investigators’ answers were like pieces of a map, and if Kurt studied each one carefully and took the effort to truly understand it, enough answers strung together could lead them both to a place where the investigator was ready to move toward the gospel.

He took a deep breath as he thought about Nuriyah’s story. It was beautiful, in a way. There were things in life that were beautiful, in part, because they were hard to understand. Looking at the night sky and trying to gauge the time it had taken for light to travel from each star to Kurt’s eyes filled him with wonder. And yes, the gospel was like that, in the sense that we could never fully comprehend it in this lifetime. But it was no sin to try.

“How do you feel about that?” Kurt asked. “Do you want to worship a God you don’t understand?”

A light went on in Nuriyah’s eyes. She laughed again, but this time it was amusement instead of incredulity. She slipped into German. “I suppose not, given that I have not prayed in years.”


	7. A House of Order

They were about halfway home, taking the scenic route through Luitpold Park, their bicycle headlights cutting a path before them through the budding woods. If Kurt let himself forget how the world worked, the way the asphalt flickered and streaked in the yellow beam made it look as if the path was moving under him like a conveyer belt and he was unmoving—not the other way around.

“I think that went pretty well. Don’t you?” Elder Anderson’s voice broke into of the silvery dark.

Kurt had to shake his head to remember where he was. It had been a long day—up at five after a night of insomnia, getting a new companion, three appointments. It must be worse for Elder Anderson. What time did he have to get up to get the train in Leipzig? Four, probably.

And yet when Kurt turned to look at the missionary pedaling by his side, the face he saw looked as energetic and joyous as the one he’d encountered that morning.

It was night, though. The moon could be hiding the bag’s under Elder Anderson’s eyes.

“They’re nice people,” Kurt said. _Nice_ was a pablum word, but Kurt had no flair for language when he was tired. He genuinely like Samir and Nuriyah, but they were both way too smart for him. He wished sometimes he would have gone to college before starting on his mission. So many of the investigators he talked too knew so much about the world. It was hard to keep up, and trying to wore him out.

Elder Anderson cranked his pedals. The wheels on his bike were smaller than on Kurt’s, and for some reason he had it set on a low gear so that he had to spin twice as fast as Kurt. Maybe that’s how he was staying awake. Kurt was about to ask, but Elder Anderson spoke first. “Do you think we’ll have another lesson with them?”

“I don’t know. They don’t have permanent resident status. We need to be careful.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not allowed to do more than two lessons with Arabs unless they’re permanent residents or citizens.”

 _Squeeeeeeeeak._ The awful screech of rubber against aluminum pealed against the asphalt and echoed against the trees. Kurt turned to find Elder Anderson at a dead stop twenty meters behind him. He stood astride his bike frame, one foot on a pedal, the other planted as firmly as a tree root on the ground.

“What?” Kurt pedaled back toward Elder Anderson. “Did you almost run over something?”

“No.” Elder Anderson might not have looked tired before, but now he looked ghostly. But that might only be the moon, too, and the shadows of tree branches crisscrossing Elder Anderson’s face. “That can’t be true. That sounds kind of … racist.”

A bitter backwash of garlic rose into Kurt’s throat. He’d had the same thought, actually, when he’d first heard the rule. But then it had been explained to him. “There’s too much risk that they could get killed if they convert here and then go back to their countries. That’s why the rule exists. It’s not just for Arabs. It’s for people from any country where there are problems with religious freedom. The Chinese, too.”

Elder Anderson’s shoulders dropped. “But Samir said he grew up around Christians. And I thought— Honestly, I know almost nothing about the Middle East, but I thought I read somewhere once that Lebanon had a lot of Christians.”

“Maybe it does. But we have to remember that not all Christians like us, either.”

“Okay. But Christians wouldn’t kill someone for changing denominations though, would they?”

For someone who’d grown up in Mormon paradise, Elder Anderson was pretty weak on his history. Kurt had three words for him: “Haun’s Mill Massacre.”

Elder Anderson shivered. Apparently he knew the story after all. On October 30, 1838, a mob of so-called Christians attacked a Mormon settlement next to Shoal Creek, Missouri, and killed eighteen people, including two children hiding in the corner of a blacksmith shop. There were only a few events that filled Kurt with the same degree of dread every time he thought of them. The murder of Matthew Shepard was among them.

“But that was a long time ago,” Elder Anderson said.

Kurt was getting irritated. It had been a long day, and a rule was a rule was a rule. Kurt might test the boundaries once in a while. The haircut regulations only said hair had to be short and didn’t actually specify a number of centimeters it had to be kept under, so sure, Kurt experimented with how long he could let his hair get on top before his zone leader said anything about it. But that was a small thing, not a matter of life and death. Besides, he didn’t actively _break_ rules. That would be like breaking one of the Ten Commandments. All of them had been put in place by Heavenly Father for his children’s benefit.

Plus, it was past nine o’clock and they were supposed to be in bed by 10:30. Kurt still needed to finish orienting Elder Anderson to the apartment since they hadn’t had time at lunch, and they needed to make plans for the next day. “Look, I don’t understand all the details behind it, but that’s the rule.”

“But if we’re giving them salvation …”

“ _We_ don’t give them salvation. God does. We’re just the messengers.”

“Sorry. You’re right.” Elder Anderson visibly deflated.

Kurt felt a little bad about it, but not bad enough to apologize back. “Come on. We need to get going. Curfew’s in twenty minutes.”

They were quiet for the rest of the ride back to the apartment, except for Kurt occasionally shouting _recht_ and _links_ at intersections so he didn’t lose Elder Anderson somewhere along the way. Kurt kept reminding himself to breathe deep and not be such an asshole. It was hard, though. He was so _tired_. He’d spent the day surrounded by people, and as nice as Elder Anderson was, Kurt just wanted to have two minutes alone to let his brain find its bearings. It was a stupid, selfish wish for a missionary to have—for any Mormon to have, really. Heavenly Father put us on earth to have relationships, and the whole point of heaven was to extend those relationships, to spend every moment of eternity with the people that you loved.

Kurt really hoped his corner of the celestial kingdom would have a time-out room that was only his, outfitted with books and fabric and modeling clay, and a door with a big brass lock that no one, not even his long-lost mother or the step-brother he missed like a twin, could get through.

Kurt made a beeline to the bathroom as soon as they got back to the apartment. Not to pee, but to wash his face of April sun and air pollution, black tea fumes and olive oil, mint and allspice and thyme, to carve out space for himself among all the events of the day.

He felt a little better when he exited the bathroom. Not great, but enough to make it through thirty more minutes of conversation with a stranger. Elder Anderson was already sitting at the dinette, his planner and scriptures open, his pens lined up, ready for daily planning.

There were two mugs on the table, and the scent of warm milk hit Kurt’s nose.

Elder Anderson looked up at Kurt with sad brown eyes. “Elder Thompson said you like warm milk before you go to bed. I hope I made it right.”

Kurt’s heart broke, both from the moment itself and the memories it evoked.

He slipped into the seat next to Elder Anderson’s. They’d never moved the chairs back to their original positions across from each other after planning and lunch earlier in the day. “I do. That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. I like to have something relaxing before bed, too. Routine is important.” Elder Anderson shrugged it off, but the barest hint of a smile began to form at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s not nothing.” Kurt had the urge to lean forward and squeeze Elder Anderson’s hand. Instead he wrapped his fingers around the mug, which was certainly just as warm. Heat seeped into Kurt’s palm and he took a sip. It was full-fat milk, and with the cinnamon Elder Anderson had sprinkled in it, it tasted as rich as ice cream. “And I’m sorry about the park. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I was tired, and when I’m tired, I have a tendency to watch people like hawks and pounce on their first weakness. Heck, even when I’m _not_ tired. It’s not Christlike. I was … tired and overwhelmed from a long day, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t do that.”

“You make it sound like you were mean, Elder Hummel. You weren’t. You were right to correct me. I forget sometimes that this mission isn’t about me and the things _I_ do. It’s about God. I’m just a conduit. I need to be more humble.”

Kurt had a hard time believing that. He may have only know Elder Anderson for a few hours, but that’s all he needed to know that his junior companion was one of the most Christlike missionaries he’d ever met: patient, meek, kind, loving, gentle, and longsuffering.

Kurt gazed at Elder Anderson, trying to figure him out and how much was safe to say, even though a part of him had already decided to say it. Elder Anderson was someone he could trust. Kurt knew that on a fundamental level. The companions who’d turned out to be trouble, Kurt had spotted right of the bat. Elder Weston had given Kurt the impression of the snake in the garden at their first handshake; Elder Flanagan’s flightiness was evident from the way he’d dropped his suitcase in the entryway and gone straight to the refrigerator without even asking if it was time to eat.

Elder Anderson was nothing like them. He put God and his fellow man first.

Kurt took a deep breath. “It’s not you, Elder Anderson. I was picked on a lot in high school. I got … bristly, as a result. No one can hurt a porcupine.”

Oh no. Elder Anderson looked sad again. That was no good. “I’m so sorry. That must have been awful. Was it because of the church?”

“Sometimes. Not a lot of Mormons in Ohio. Some bullies thought it was _hilarious_ to try to force-feed me coffee.”

“That’s _awful._ ”

“I survived it. But honestly? I think even that wasn’t so much about me being Mormon, and more about …” How much more did Kurt want to say? He hadn’t thought this through. And Kurt liked to think _everything_ through. “I was really little. I looked like a ten-year-old girl and until I was sixteen and finally hit my growth spurt, and … well, you can hear my voice.”

“What’s wrong with your voice?”

“Um, people sometimes confuse me for a woman on the phone.”

Blaine furrowed his eyebrows. “Really?”

“It _is_ pretty high for someone who’s voice has already ‘changed.’” Kurt put air quotes around the last word.

“I guess. But the timbre is a man’s. It has this quality, like …” Blaine tilted his head as if to shake the hidden word loose from a treasure chest stored somewhere deep in his brain. Kurt could sympathize. Going back and forth between two languages made it difficult to speak either perfectly. Kurt was always forgetting English words that he’d known for years. A few weeks earlier, he’d tried to explain _Schorle_ to his dad in a letter home. It was a mix of one part juice and one part carbonated mineral water, but Kurt couldn’t for the life of him remember how to say “carbonated.” He’d ended up explaining it as “water with bubbles.”

A light went on in Blaine’s eyes. “Like velvet chocolate cake with smoked paprika. That’s what your voice is like. It has … texture. Women’s voices aren’t like that.”

Kurt felt the heat of a blush forming on his chest. If he didn’t douse himself with water, his face would soon be aflame. No one had ever talked about Kurt’s voice like that—not even Mercedes, and she adored him. He took a long sip and breathed deeply as he tried to come up with a way to deflect the compliment. He settled on, “Not even Amy Winehouse?”

“Nah. She just sounded like she’d smoked too many cigarettes.”

“Well, she probably did. Poor woman. If only she’d had the Word of Wisdom.”

“Yeah,” Blaine said soberly. “But that’s why we’re here, right? To help other people who are struggling. Who knows how many Amy Winehouse stories have been prevented by the work of missionaries?”

“That’s true.” Kurt looked at the table. Blaine’s hands were folded neatly on top of his planner. His fingernails were short and square, with no ragged hangnails. They looked well cared for. That was good. Missionaries should take care of themselves, especially Elder Anderson. He deserved it. “You have a good heart, Elder Anderson.”

“Can I ask you something, Elder Hummel? About Nuriyah and Samir?”

“Sure.”

“I just keep thinking … I mean, the gospel changes lives. It could have changed Amy Winehouse’s life. It doesn’t seem fair to withhold it from people.”

“I know. I thought it was weird at first, too. But we’re not withholding the gospel. We’re planting the seed, and they can learn more about it on their own. Think about it. The gospel is about life. It’s called the plan of happiness for a reason. Sometimes we have to suffer for it, but God doesn’t want us to suffer needlessly. So say a Muslim accepts the gospel and gets baptized and then goes home, and their government finds out. In a lot of Muslim countries, it’s an executionable offense to convert to another religion. The police come and arrest the person, and then they torture him until he recants, or they execute him. Well, if he recants, his soul is in worse shape than it was before he was baptized. And if he dies, he’s still not going to be able to do the other ordinances necessary for exaltation. He won’t be able to take his endowment or get sealed in the temple. And he’ll have suffered in terrible ways. He’ll bring that suffering and pain with him into the spirit world, and maybe he’ll have resentments against the church because of it. And that won’t hurt only him, but also his family members and friends who think, ‘If it weren’t for the gospel, we could have been happy.’”

“I never thought about it that way. I guess we don’t have much persecution in Arizona.”

“Well, we don’t have persecution like _that_ in Ohio, either. But not everyone is as fortunate as us. That’s why Heavenly Father gives us more than just this life to get things right. Muslims will have the chance to accept the gospel in the spirit world, just like everyone else. They can accept baptism and the endowment and a temple sealing. And they can do so happily, without suffering. Besides, every pain we experience only adds to Christ’s anguish at the Atonement.”

Elder Anderson looked at Kurt thoughtfully. “That makes sense. I just don’t want to withhold the gospel because we think that anyone is less than us.”

“Samir and Nuriyah are worth as much as you and me. We’re all God’s children. Whenever they get a chance to fully embrace the gospel, I’ll be so happy for them. We just have to keep in mind that Heavenly Father’s timescale isn’t the same as ours. A lot of this work in Germany, whether it’s among Muslims or Catholics or atheists, is about planting seeds. Which, by the way, is what we should start planning on for tomorrow before the milk gets cold.”

Elder Anderson looked at his planner and laughed. “I almost forgot. Yes. Let’s.”


	8. Redeeming Love

“So, this is the point where I’d usually give you the full rundown of how things work in this apartment, but honestly?” Elder Hummel stacked his scriptures, his planner and his copy of _Preach My Gospel_ on top of the closed area book and stood up from the table. “I kind of just want to get ready for bed. And you still need to unpack. You’ve already seen the bathroom, and I think that’s pretty self-explanatory—my stuff’s on the right side of the sink so you can have the left. I’ll show you the bedroom and tomorrow you can poke around the kitchen, though I’ll need to show you the trick to getting the stove started. Sound good?”

Not waiting for an answer, he spun around and walked two paces to the bookshelf. He set his books under a shelf full of blue softcover copies of _Das Buch Mormon._ If Elder Hummel had been someone else, Blaine might have felt brushed off, but from their acquaintance of—what was it now? ten hours?—he knew it wasn’t personal.

Back home, Blaine had loved eating the prickly pears that grew in their garden. At the end of each summer as they started to ripen, he and his mom would be out there with his tongs, plucking the purple fruits from their cactus leaves and plopping them into a big plastic bucket, then bringing them inside to clean and peel in a complex procedure that sometimes made Blaine feel like he was in training to become a surgeon. The aim of the operation was to never touch the outside of the fruit, which was covered in tiny spines that hurt like the dickens if they got into your skin. Over the years Blaine got pretty good at it, though he never learned to avoid them completely. That was fine with him, though. The magenta fruit inside, like strawberries and watermelon and figs all rolled into one, made all the trouble worth it.

Elder Hummel was one of those prickly pears. Sure, he had barbs, but that was just on the surface. Underneath he was vibrant and sweet.

“Elder Anderson? Does that sound good?” Elder Hummel was looking down at him, his raised eyebrows like the top curves of two question marks.

Blaine blinked. “I’m sorry. I guess I zoned out for a second there. I must be tired too.”

“I’m sure you are, traveling all the way from Leipzig. And we did a decent amount of biking today. Do you need to eat anything before bed?”

Blaine patted his stomach. “Definitely not. I think I ate enough at dinner to last me the rest of the week.”

Elder Hummel smiled. Blaine’s heart pumped a satisfied beat. There was something special about Elder Hummel’s smile. He didn’t show it as often as the other American missionaries Blaine had worked with. But when he did, it was always genuine. It made Elder Hummel look youthful in the way that everyone would look youthful at the resurrection: not childish, but in a sort of perfected adulthood, without any of the deterioration that aging and suffering bring. It was the kind of smile Blaine had always imagined Joseph Smith would have had, wholehearted and unreserved.

Blaine added to his mental list of mission goals: _Make Elder Hummel smile as often as possible._ He would write it down in his mission journal before he went to bed.

“Okay. Go ahead and put your books away here.” Elder Hummel pointed to the shelf. As Blaine complied, Elder Hummel added, “There’s a night table in the bedroom if you want to keep your scriptures there. I have a sleep mask, so if you have trouble sleeping and need to turn on the light to read in the middle of the night, I’m fine with that. I know it can be hard to adjust to a new place.”

“Thanks. That’s sweet of you.”

The corners of Elder Hummel’s mouth quirked higher. “You need to stop being so nice, or I’m going to start thinking you mean it. Now, come on.”

Blaine grabbed his quad, suitcase, and garment bag and followed Elder Hummel, who was apparently one of those people who got chatty when he was tired, because his mouth went a mile a minute as they trudged down the short hallway. “Okay. Well. I don’t know if you’ve guessed already, but I’m pretty particular about how things are done. I don’t like stuff left lying around. When you’re done with something, put it away, and you will have a much happier senior companion.”

“No, that’s good. I like when everything has its place. God’s ‘house is a—’”

“‘—house of order … and not a house of confusion,’” Elder Hummel chimed in as he flicked on the bedroom light. “One of my favorite scripture quotes. Not sure why that wasn’t a memory verse in seminary.”’

The first thing that caught Blaine’s attention was the sloped ceiling perpendicular to the door. Like the walls, it was painted white, and it had two skylights with cranks on the bottom that indicated they could be opened when the weather warmed. The far wall had another window; the room probably had amazing light during the day, perfect for sitting around in bed and doodling—not that Blaine would ever have time for that. Missionaries only took one day off a week, and most of it was spent doing laundry, restocking the pantry, cleaning the apartment, and answering letters from home.

Well, maybe Blaine could write letters in here. It was nice and homey, and it smelled a little like Elder Hummel’s aftershave, which Blaine had first noticed when they hugged in the train station and again each time they sat next to each other—even at dinner he would catch Elder Hummel’s scent every once in while when he least expected it, the subtle aroma of bay leaf and lime under their feast’s more pungent spices. Two twin beds on cheap metal frames lay in an L-shape with a green Ikea nightstand and LED lamp between them. One ran along the sloped roof that was both wall and ceiling and, since it was stripped bare, Blaine assumed it must be his. Elder Hummel’s lay along the near wall and was made up neatly with white sheets and matching blue geometric duvet cover and pillows. It looked very European.

“So, that’s obviously your bed,” Elder Hummel said, pointing to the bare mattress. “Comforters and extra pillows are in the bottom of the wardrobe—” he pointed to a freestanding closet opposite the sloped ceiling “—and there are more in the big cardboard box next to the bookshelf in the living room. Elder Flanagan left no bedbugs that I know of. As for your suits and such, the wardrobe’s like the bathroom: you get the left side.”

“That will be easy to remember. I’m left-handed.”

“I noticed.” Elder Hummel’s smile turned shy. “Earlier. When we were planning.”

“You did?” Blaine was inexplicably pleased. Well, maybe not inexplicably. It always felt nice when people noticed things about him.

“Yes. It makes sitting next to each other easier. No elbows in each other’s writing space, if I’m on the right and you’re on the left.”

“That _is_ convenient.”

“Anyway, you have these two drawers in the dresser.” Elder Hummel walked over to the dresser and demonstrated like Vanna White. “Elder Flanagan was kind of a slob, but I’m pretty sure he never threw dirty garments into his underwear drawer, but just in case, there’s a roll of drawer liner on top of the wardrobe that you’re welcome to help yourself to. I can’t live without the stuff, but there’s no point in me lugging it all the way back to America, so I’m donating it to the apartment as of now. And if all that’s not enough room for your clothes, you’ll just have to use your suitcase as a spare drawer and slide it under your bed. That’s what I do. And you’re welcome to use the two hampers in the corner if you promise to never throw in colors with whites. I will not have my garments turning gray or pink.”

“Oh. Always. I can’t stand it when people don’t separate their laundry. I mean, seriously, how do good, worthy priesthood holders survive to eighteen years without ever learning how to do that? It’s more basic than arithmetic.”

Elder Hummel turned to Blaine, his eyes sparkling like Christmas lights. “Oh, stop it. You’re too perfect.”

“Don’t worry,” Blaine teased back, warmth spreading through him. “You’ll discover all my faults in due time.”

*

Blaine set about putting his stuff away while Elder Hummel prepared for his evening ablutions. “Do you mind if I take my shower first?” Elder Hummel said before he left the room. “I promise not to use all the hot water.”

“This apartment doesn’t have a Durchlauferhitzer?” Blaine thought he’d seen a little box on the wall of the shower when he’d been in the bathroom earlier. Usually, that meant an on-demand water heater.

“It does. It’s mostly just a figure of speech—though the thing is kind of testy when the water pressure is low. Fortunately, the downstairs neighbors almost never run their dishwasher this late at night.”

“That’s good to know.” Blaine unzipped his suit bag and hung it in the closet. He’d need to get up early tomorrow to do some ironing. “Wait. _We_ don’t have a dishwasher, do we?”

Elder Hummel laughed. “Are you kidding? We’re missionaries. Doing dishes by hand brings us closer to Christ.” He grabbed something from the top dresser drawer. “And just to warn you, I’m kind of a bathroom hog. I tend to get lost in my nightly skin conditioning routine. Holler if you get desperate to pee. I’ll open the door once I’m out of the shower. And, by the way, I’m not one of those senior companions who requires you to keep the bathroom door open while you’re doing your business. Keep that between you and God, thank you.”

And with that, Elder Hummel was gone.

The silence hit Blaine like a baseball pitched at full speed. It was his first moment all day to himself, unless one counted the couple times he’d gone off to pee. Generally, Blaine didn’t like being by himself. It gave his brain too much space to worry. He did better when he had someone else to focus on.

But he had plenty of tasks to do. Unpack. Make the bed. Change into his pajamas. Pray.

As Blaine set his quad scriptures on the night table, he noticed several photos on the wall next to Elder Hummel’s bed, taped at just the right height for him to see if he was lying on his side with his face toward the wall. Elder Hummel, dapper in a blue tux, and a pretty black girl in a sleeveless dress—so she probably wasn’t Mormon, but maybe she had been his girlfriend anyway?—at some formal high school dance. A young woman with the elfin good looks and coloring of Liv Tyler in _Lord of the Rings,_ but dressed in one of those Laura Ashley dresses from the 1980s or 1990s and holding a baby in her arms. Blaine might have thought the woman was Elder Hummel’s mother holding his baby self, if not for the photo of him in a red graduation gown standing with a middle-aged couple—a tall bald guy and a short woman with a huge smile and tiny eyes.

And finally, a picture of Elder Hummel and a freakishly tall white boy in a rugby shirt and puffy vest, their arms around each other’s shoulders, both grinning at the camera like the whole world was theirs.

Blaine felt a stupid stab of jealousy in his chest and chided himself for it. It was dumb, how he sometimes got about his guy friends—and seriously dumb here, because he’d known Elder Hummel for less than a day, didn’t even know his first name or what he liked to eat for breakfast or if he snored or which David Archuleta album was his favorite. But already he’d decided that Elder Hummel was going to be his best friend in the world, hadn’t he? He would be the heroic Frodo Baggins to Blaine’s everyman Samwise Gamgee.

But Elder Hummel had other friends. Friends who had known him since before his mission, and who would be waiting for him when he got back. Best friends who knew him inside and out, and who knew him the same way. Who loved him as he was, and whom he loved back just as much.

Blaine had never had that with anybody. Well, maybe his brother Cooper. But that didn’t count. They were brothers.

But hey, maybe Elder Hummel and this seven-foot Frankenteen were brothers, too.

Oh, come on. Who was Blaine kidding? They didn’t look anything alike.

But neither did Blaine and Cooper.

Little pains from the past bubbled to Blaine’s surface. Spring break of his sophomore year of high school, he’d gone on a vacation to Salt Lake with his parents and come back to find that Sam, the guy who he thought was his best friend in the whole world, had a new best friend now—some kid named Joe who’d moved to Mesa earlier in the semester, who was supposed to be an Evangelical like Sam but didn’t look like a Christian at all with his raggedy jeans and his Baja hoodie and his head full of dreadlocks even though he wasn’t black. They’d spent the whole break playing _Lego Star Wars III: The Clone Wars_ on Sam’s Wii, when Sam had promised to save it for Blaine. And when Blaine started fuming about it like an _idiot_ , Sam had just stared at him and said, “Dude, I have two best friends now. You and Joe can be best friends too. We’ll be like Luke and Han and Leia!” and that had just make Blaine need to go punch something, because everyone new that Han’s best friend was Chewbacca, and that’s what Blaine was now, wasn’t he? Chewbacca, thrown to the side.

It was _so dumb_ , especially how Blaine started sobbing over it later in the middle of the night, and Cooper came into his room all bleary-eyed asking what was wrong, and Blaine just sobbed harder, snot flying through his nose as he tried to explain the inexplicable. Blaine should have felt better with Cooper’s arms around him, and maybe he felt a little better but it also made him feel worse, because it was a reminder that Sam’s _weren’t_. “Hey, hey, shortie,” Cooper whispered over and over. He was the only person who could call Blaine _shortie_ without it feeling bad. “You’ll figure it all out eventually.”

And then there was Jeremiah, three years older than Blaine with these blonde curls that shone like a halo. They had one year in seminary together before Jeremiah graduated, and another year in Sunday school before he went on his mission, and all that time there was Mutual on Wednesday nights. They’d never been best friends, and Blaine didn’t even try—Jeremiah was like the sun and Blaine was just a stray piece of cosmic debris in the Kuiper Belt. But sometimes Jeremiah would give him an approving grin when Blaine said something in Sunday school or bump the volleyball to him in Mutual, and Blaine would feel like he’d been upgraded to dwarf planet status.

Three weeks before Jeremiah went on his mission, they’d run into each other at a Starbucks and Blaine had offered to pay for his hot chocolate. They’d sat together for over an hour, Jeremiah talking about all the packing that he needed to do and all his preparations for the temple endowment, and Blaine felt almost like his equal. A week later they ran into each other again (okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly coincidence; maybe Jeremiah had mentioned that he always stopped by Starbucks after his shift at the Gap for either hot chocolate or their amazeballs Passion Tango herbal tea, and Blaine had put a reminder on his phone even though there was no way he was going to forget to show up at the right time). Blaine bought him another drink and also a huge chocolate chunk cookie to split, and he listened raptly as Jeremiah talked in vague, reverent language about how awesome and spiritual the temple was, and how Blaine should stay on the right path because, wow, Jeremiah had thought he’d known everything about God but the endowment showed him he hadn’t even known the half of it. And Blaine just sat there, soaking it all in and surreptitiously sneaking glances at Jeremiah’s nipples, where the embroidered emblems on Jeremiah’s brand new temple garments pressed bumps into the thin fabric of his outer shirt. Blaine knew he should probably stop, but the curiosity was burning at him—why, Blaine couldn’t figure out; it wasn’t like he’d never seen temple garments before. Everyone in his family besides him was old enough to wear them, and when their mom wasn’t home, Cooper had the annoying habit of walking around in nothing _but_ garments. Still, it was like an itch Blaine couldn’t scratch, and later when Jeremiah stood up, Blaine even found himself looking for the hemline of Jeremiah’s shorts—which wasn’t hard to find, since Jeremiah was wearing stretch chinos that left very little to the imagination.

Blaine wrote to Jeremiah after he left on his mission. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he knew that writing to missionaries was a good deed, and even though he hadn’t been that great about writing to other missionaries in the ward, he wrote to Jeremiah every week telling him about what he was learning in seminary and other spiritually uplifting things, until eventually he got tired of getting one short postcard for every five letters he sent.

Blaine was _not_ going to do this again. He’d gone through his whole mission so far without becoming overly attached to any of his companions, and he wasn’t going to start now. Being a missionary was teaching him to be an adult with steady, intelligible emotions. Blaine wasn’t going to lose that now.

Blaine dropped to his knees and folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes, and he prayed silently, just on the off chance that Elder Hummel might come zipping out of the shower at any moment, because this was not anything that anyone but God needed to hear: _Heavenly Father, I thank thee for today and for giving me such an awesome new companion. Sorry I’m being so stupid about it. Please help me be less ridiculous. Elder Hummel is an amazing elder and I want to be his friend, but I don’t want to be a dumb friend who gets weirdly jealous about the weirdest things. It’s great that Elder Hummel has people in his life who love him. Help me be one of those people. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen._

The prayer made Blaine feel better, and he got back to his to-do list, making short work of unpacking his suitcase—he should be good at that now after doing it so many times—and changing into a clean set of garments and his pajamas before starting on the bed. Somewhere in the middle of wrestling with the duvet cover, he heard Elder Hummel start to sing:

 

[ _Come thou fount of every blessing,_](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Z3pjXmNq2g) _tune my heart to sing thy grace_  
Streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise  
Teach me some melodious sonnet sung by flaming tongues above!  
I'll praise the mount I'm fixed upon it, mount of thy redeeming love

 

Blaine’s hands went still. How was he supposed to do something as mundane as tucking in sheet corners in the presence of that voice? When Joseph Smith saw Heavenly Father in the sacred grove, did he twiddle his thumbs? When the Angel Moroni came to visit him in his bedroom, did he say, ‘You don’t mind if I make my bed while you prophesy to me, do you?’ When John the Baptist appeared as an angel to him and commanded him to be baptized, did he turn away and continue with his farm work instead?

Elder Hummel’s song seemed as heaven-sent as any of those messengers.

Blaine sank to the floor and closed his eyes. He folded his arms across his chest the way he did when he prayed. And, without being aware of it, he began to sing:

 

 _O to grace how great a debtor daily I'm constrained to be!_  
Let thy goodness like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee  
Prone to wander Lord I feel it, prone to leave the God I love  
Here's my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above

 

Blaine had a simple faith based on his trust of his fellow man. He wasn’t prone to spiritual ecstasies. If he had revelations, they were of the most undramatic sort—the slow pulling back of a curtain more than the shaking of foundations.

But this.

For the first time in his life, Blaine understood what other people meant when they said they felt the Holy Ghost burning a fire in their heart. Inside him, there was only light.

In the bathroom, Elder Hummel stopped singing. Blaine opened his eyes and looked at his hands. They were shaking, and his vision was blurry from unshed tears. But that was okay. Because in this moment he understood how perfectly he had been created. He saw himself as he’d been in the pre-earth life and would be again in the resurrection, freed of all self-consciousness and doubt.

Maybe the way he felt about Elder Hummel wasn’t stupid at all. Maybe he was _supposed_ to want to be close to him. Maybe that desire was a prompting from the Holy Ghost. Elder Thompson had told Blaine that Elder Hummel was a spiritual giant who knew his scriptures inside and out and let the promptings of the Spirit guide his daily life. Friendship with him could bring Blaine closer to God.

The year Blaine studied the Old Testament in seminary, they’d spent a couple weeks going over the reign of King David. As a short kid, Blaine had always had a special place in his heart for the diminutive little shepherd who felled the mighty Goliath thanks to God and a well-aimed slingshot. David might have been tiny, but he was a spiritual giant, too, and that allowed him to defeat physical ones.

But the story that touched Blaine most that year was one he’d never noticed before. If it had ever been mentioned in Primary or Sunday School or Teachers Quorum, Blaine couldn’t remember it. After slaying Goliath, David was taken into King Saul’s home. There, he met Saul’s son Jonathan and they became fast friends.

The seminary manual didn’t say much about this friendship; the seminary teacher mentioned, more as an aside than anything, that Jonathan’s loyalty to David was guided by the Holy Ghost.

But Blaine pored over the story, from the moment “the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul” until Jonathan’s death, when David cried over the lifeless body, “thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.”

In them, Blaine recognized the kind of friendship he’d always longed for: loyal, total, and bringing both friends nearer to exaltation.

The shower turned off, and Elder Hummel began to move about the bathroom, clinking bottles and flipping the toilet seat up and down. And in that same glorious voice he began to sing:

 

[ _In München steht ein Hofbräuhaus_ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zxHelCzB1QI) _  
Eins, zwei, g'suffa!_

 

Blaine guffawed. Maybe Elder Hummel wasn’t so perfect, if he could go from hymns to ‘A royal brewery’s in Munich town, one, two, guzzle it down!’ He was human like Blaine, still a long way from becoming a god. There was no need to idolize him.


	9. The Glory of the Stars

Showers were like mini-baptisms. They washed away the past, letting Kurt emerge each time as a renewed person. By the time his hair was dry and his skin polished to the smoothness of marble, the feelings of _too much, too much_ that had overwhelmed Kurt earlier in the evening had dissipated completely. He’d had his time alone and no longer needed to hide. He was the god in training that his Heavenly Parents had created him to be, ready to face Elder Anderson as a spirit brother.

Or was that Doppelgänger?

Because when Kurt returned to the bedroom, he found himself looking into what was almost a reflection of himself—well, if you ignored the gorgeous face and the perfect hands and the fact it was four inches difference shorter than him.

Elder Anderson, like Kurt, was wearing a set of traditional navy blue pajamas with white piping along the placket and front pocket.

He really was a short, vaguely Eurasian-looking version of Cary Grant.

“Our pajamas,” Kurt said, pointing at Elder Anderson’s chest stupidly.

Elder Anderson covered his mouth and giggled— _actually giggled_. “Oh my gosh. This is awesome! You’re my first comp to wear real pajamas! And they _match!_ ”

Kurt had never, in all his life, found himself in such a situation. Even on his mission, he’d been a one-of-a-kind dresser. His suits were bespoke, his ties one-of-a-kind masterpieces. Even his _Choose the Right_ ring stood out. Most missionaries had a plain stainless steel band imprinted with a black CTR shield and a few, like Elder Anderson, had one that spelled out the phrase in German: _Wähle das Rechte._ But Kurt’s ring wasn’t plain. It imitated the form of a belt buckle, a constant reminder to Kurt that to _choose the right_ gave his life shape and form, the way a belt pulls an outfit into a statement.

Yet here he was, face to face with someone dressed just like him.

Kurt couldn’t decide if he was appalled or tickled.

To be fair, on closer inspection (not that Kurt stepped any closer; he just couldn’t stop _staring_ ), they didn’t match exactly. Elder Anderson’s PJs were cotton, while Kurt’s were satin. Also, Elder Anderson’s had teeny tiny white polka dots the size of pinheads, almost impossible to see with only the bedside lamp on.

“This,” Kurt finally said, “is an unparalleled moment.”

Elder Anderson’s eyes shone. “You can say that again.”

“Do you think we’ll have to come up with some kind of pajama schedule? Wear our navy PJs on opposite nights so we don’t confuse ourselves with each other?”

“No,” Elder Anderson laughed. “I could never confuse myself with you. You look as dashing as Clark Gable in _It Happened One Night_. I just look like … me.”

Kurt had to look at the floor. He studied a small gap where two of the boards were misaligned. “I don’t think his pajamas were navy in that movie. And I don’t have a mustache.”

“Well. It’s the same effect.”

Kurt could not believe he was having this conversation. Who said things like that? Only Mormon boys from practically-Utah who were so cluelessly straight they didn’t see anything untoward about it, apparently.

Kurt risked a glance up at Elder Anderson’s face just to make sure he wasn’t misinterpreting and the joke was on him. But no. Elder Anderson looked just as sincere as when he’d told that old lady at the train story to read her Book of Mormon or when he’d shared his testimony with Stefan. He had that same glow about him, earnest and wholesome.

Kurt scratched the back of his neck. “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.”

*

 

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask you something personal,” Kurt said as he pulled back his covers to slide a fleece-covered hot water bottle between the sheets. This was his nightly ritual through most of the year here in Germany, where the nights were brisk even in summer. This meant his feet were perennially cold at night, and when they were cold, he couldn’t sleep. But his little hot water bottle took the edge off.

Elder Anderson looked up from where he was already tucked in bed with his journal in his lap and several pillows propped behind him in a makeshift backrest. “Of course you can. You’re my companion.”

Kurt studied Elder Anderson’s face in the dim light from the bedside lamp. After being up for eighteen hours straight, he was still had an enthusiasm in his expression not unlike that of a hound dog waiting to have his favorite toy thrown to him. It was both adorable and disconcerting. But Kurt didn’t want to make it disappear. “Never mind.”

That really got Elder Anderson’s attention. He spun, swinging his feet off the edge of the bed and planting them on the floor. He no longer looked like a hound. He was Bambi’s mother, sweet and doe-eyed. “Please, Elder Hummel. Good communication is the basis of a healthy companionship.”

“It’s not— It’s nothing like that, Elder Anderson. It’s …” Kurt found himself smiling in spite of himself. “It’s morbid curiosity, really.”

Elder Anderson folded his hands together and propped his chin on them, leaning forward. “Well, now I _really_ have to know.”

“Fine, but it’s going to sound bad. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’ll just pretend you’re German.”

Kurt chuckled as he flopped onto his own bed. “Alright then. I’m just wondering—how can you stand going to bed without showering first?”

Elder Anderson’s face wasn’t in the umbel of light cast from the bedlamp, but Kurt could still see it change color. He just couldn’t tell exactly what degree of peach or pink it became. He felt a little bad for thinking that, whatever shade it might be, it looked becoming on Elder Anderson’s cheeks.

“I told you it was going to sound bad, but I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright, Elder Hummel. I can go wash if—”

“You smell fine, Elder Anderson.”

“Really? I don’t—? We _did_ bike today, and there were the stairs; I mean, I changed my garments but I guess with the travel—”

“For goodness sakes, you don’t stink, Elder Anderson. If you smell like anything, it’s raspberries and vetiver.” Oh. Kurt had _not_ meant to say that. But at least he hadn’t said _springtime and daffodils and the fresh air breezing past me as I pedal along the Danube._ Even if Kurt did get a slight whiff of all those things from where he currently sat, two short paces from Elder Anderson. “I just— For me, after a long day, I feel like I have to wash it all off me. Even if it’s been a good day, like today has been. It’s like with my journal. I have to start each new entry on a fresh page. Which— I guess that’s a waste of paper, but it helps me focus on the day I’m writing about.” And why was he telling Elder Anderson that? It probably sounded neurotic.

“What does vetiver smell like?”

Right now would be a good time for a hole to appear in the floor and swallow Kurt and his bed whole. He stared at his socked feet, which were not at all cold at the moment. His whole body was ready to burn up from mortification. “Oh, um. Kind of like fresh grass. It’s a common fixative in fragrances. It’s probably in your deodorant or aftershave … whatever.”

“Oh.” Out of the corner of his eye, Kurt could see Elder Anderson’s body language relax. “So you really were just curious?”

“Yes. Though my father always told me curiosity got the cat, I never do seem able to keep my big mouth shut when I want to know something.”

“I like that about you.”

Kurt risked a look at Elder Anderson’s face. This time, he looked neither like a dog nor a deer. His expression was … complicated. Human.

Kurt thought of that bookshelf in the back of his mind, stuffed the emotion welling in his heart into it, and pushed the door shut. “You’d be the first,” he said under his breath.

“I don’t believe that, Elder Hummel.”

“Perhaps, but we weren’t supposed to be talking about me. We were supposed to be talking about you and your curious grooming habits. Because, more than the showering part, I’m wondering how you can sleep with all that product in your hair.”

Elder Anderson patted his head, as if just noticing for the first time that he _had_ hair. “Oh, that’s easy. People sleep better around familiar smells. So I always sleep with product in my hair. It’s my familiar smell here in Germany.”

“You could put a drop of lavender oil on your pillow, you know.” Kurt tried to give Elder Adnerson a judgmental stinkeye, but to be honest, his answer was so ridiculously cute, Kurt couldn’t really fault him for it.

“Well, there’s also the fact that I look like a giant head of broccoli without product.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true.”

“Even if it were, curly hair is nice. I used to want curly hair when I was younger.”

Elder Anderson gazed at Kurt for much too long. “I think your hair is perfect.”

Kurt threw another feeling into his bookcase and slammed the door shut. “We should pray and go to bed. It’s ten thirty. I have the alarm set for six-thirty, but the church bells across the street will probably get us up before that. Unless you have ear plugs?”

“I do, but I’ll leave them out. I need to iron in the morning. And shower, obviously,” Elder Anderson added with a wink before sliding to his knees on the floor and facing his bed. “Can I say a prayer out loud before we do our personal prayers?”

“Of course.” The floor was cold under Kurt’s knees. He faced the wall and took in the faces of his family—Mom, Dad, Carole, Finn, Mercedes. He closed his eyes.

“Heavenly Father, we thank thee for this amazing day. Thank thee for our investigators—Doro, Stefan, Nuriyah, and Samir—and their desire to know thee, and for the Wörle family and their eagerness to serve thee. And thank thee for bringing Elder Hummel and me together. He has already taught me so much and drawn me closer to thy Spirit. He deserves to have a worthy companion, and I pray that I can be that for him with thy help. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

It was de rigeur for missionaries to thank Heavenly Father for each other in their prayers, but Elder Anderson had a way of speaking that made nothing sound de rigeur. His words tugged at the doors of Kurt’s bookcase, threatening to let the things he’d stored away so carefully over the course of the day—the months, the years—fall out.

As Kurt began his own silent prayer, the words that echoed through his mind were the prayer of his Savior at Gethsemane. That prayer had become a sort of mantra to him when he’d first realized he had not been made in the image of his parents and that there was no place for his longings in the plan of salvation. He asked it of God again: _Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done._

_*_

“Elder Hummel?”

They had just flicked off the light. Elder Anderson’s voice was quiet—reverent, even, as if he were speaking in church.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for giving me the bed under the skylights. The stars are magnificent.”

Kurt pulled his eye mask down. He wasn’t directly under the windows, but if he turned his head, a bit to the side, he could see a little of what Elder Anderson was talking about: a loose strand of stars threading through the sky—Orion’s belt, maybe, or the handle of the Little Dipper. Kurt didn’t know because he’d never earned his astronomy badge in Boy Scouts. But even without knowing the name of the constellation to which they belonged, he could see that they were beautiful.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Elder Anderson said. “The stars are the symbol of the lowest degree of glory. And still, in some ways, they’re more beautiful than the moon and the sun.”

The doors on Kurt’s bookcase fluttered. “I’ve always thought so, too. We can’t live without the sun. But the sun wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the stars.”

 

*

 

Kurt woke up, pushing his sleep mask to his forehead with the same sort of motion a cat uses to wash its ears, and rolled over to check on his companion. The sight startled him—he’d been expecting to see Elder Flanagan there, his mouth open as he drooled a pint’s worth of saliva onto his pillow.

But it wasn’t Flanagan. Of course not. Flanagan was gone, replaced by the enigmatic Elder Anderson.

His companion’s mouth was slightly parted, the bottoms of his two front teeth peeking from the gap, his lips soft and full. Kurt could imagine their color even now, pink and ripe, in the gray rays of the moon that shone through the skylights.

Elder Anderson was beautiful when he slept. There was no denying it. It wasn’t just his mouth or his teeth or even his eyelashes, which were as dark as Mercedes’ but even longer, thicker, like an army of open parentheses waiting for words to fill them. It wasn’t the five o’clock shadow blooming on his jaw.

It was _him_. Elder Anderson. He was a beautiful human being, created in the image of God and striving toward perfection.

 _Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect._ Looking at him in this moment, Kurt could believe that Elder Anderson was already halfway there.

Anderson. Anderson. Kurt rolled the syllables around in his brain. Kurt had always found the mission tradition of only using last names comforting. It anonymized his companions, made them less like friends and more like co-workers, put a distance between Kurt and others that kept him safe. It was good practice for the rest of Kurt’s life: living and working among men, but never really connecting; following the advice given by the Brethren in _God Loveth His Children_ to build associations “with those of the same gender …, so long as you set wise boundaries to avoid improper and unhealthy emotional dependency. … There is moral risk in having so close a relationship with one friend of the same gender that it may lead to vices the Lord has condemned.”

But how exhausting it was to always keep things on a superficial level, to never connect to another soul the way his parents had, and every single one of the Brethren doling out that advice had connected with their wives.

Kurt was getting tired of distance. He wanted to know Elder Anderson’s first name—maybe even to speak it.

The doors of Kurt's bookcase creaked open. He didn't try to shut them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Want to reblog on tumblr? [Here's the link.](http://wowbright.tumblr.com/post/154401092355/title-a-marvelous-work-and-a-wonder-author)
> 
> And yes, there is more to come in this universe. You can subscribe to my AO3 feed or periodically check my “A Marvelous Work and a Wonder” series to see if I’ve added anything new, but I wouldn’t expect anything for a few months.
> 
> \------
> 
> Disclaimers and author's notes:
> 
> Beliefs stated as facts are beliefs, not facts.
> 
> The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is a real church, and it does send missionaries to Germany. Names of church presidents, prophets, apostles, and historical figures are factual, and scripture passages are either quoted from English versions used by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, or translated from German versions. Historical Ingolstadt landmarks and major thoroughfares are based in fact; other places are a mix of factual and fictional to meet the needs of the story.
> 
> However, there is no Germany Central-South Mission, and all the missionaries, church members, and other characters who make appearances in the story are fictional. There is an Ingolstadt Branch, but it isn’t the one presented in this story.
> 
> Notes on scriptures and language:
> 
> In quoting scriptures, I relied on the most current editions of the English and German editions of the Book of Mormon, Doctrine & Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price published by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. For the Hebrew Bible and New Testament, I used the LDS English Bible, which is based on the King James, and either Die Einheitsübersetzung, a Catholic/ecumenical translation of the Bible, or Die Lutherbibel 1984, a modern adaptation of Martin Luther’s 1522 translation of Greek and Hebrew Scriptures into colloquial German. The LDS Church does not publish a Bible in German or dictate a preferred translation for that language, but current missionaries tend to use Die Einheitsübersetzung.
> 
> The language of the German scriptures is much simpler and more easily comprehended by a modern audience than that of English LDS Scriptures; wherever the characters would be reading or discussing scriptures in German, and especially if there are significant differences between the English and German versions, I made an effort to translate into English from the German text in order to convey the flavor of the conversation more accurately.
> 
> In referring to deities, I followed the practice of English LDS scriptures by not capitalizing pronouns, with the exception of quoted material.


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